GI JOE: Ghost Viper
by Solosam
Summary: Lost in the deep jungles of Thailand, Mutt and Junkyard must join forces with Malay rebels, fight the forces of Cobra, and survive the insidious Ghost Vipers... All while struggling to keep their team alive and their souls intact.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

It's midnight over Thailand. We sit in darkness, hugging our rifles to our chests. The Tomahawk has no doors. We're moving at close to 100 knots, and we have to duck our heads to shield ourselves from the wind. Junkyard sits on the floor between my legs. I can't see his eyes beneath the dog-sized goggles, but I know he is watching me. Every thing I do is a cue to him. Right now, I have to show him that I am calm, even though I kind of want to scream.

Lift-Ticket brings us in over the southern Malay Peninsula. We fly nap-of-the-earth, following a river of ink while dodging between trees and hilltops. Radar cannot penetrate mountains and tree lines. This is the safest way to fly in the sense that it minimizes the risk of detection and, with it, anti-aircraft defenses. But it is also the most dangerous, especially at night. Every five seconds, Lift-Ticket reads off the altitude for the benefit of his co-pilot. We can hear him in our earpieces. "Thirty, thirty-five, thirty..." Every five seconds. It 's maddening. And when he says, "Thirty," he means thirty feet, not meters. If someone strung a power line across the river, it could kill us all.

There's no telling whether we are in hostile territory or not. The entire region is an ungovernable patchwork of ethnic and religious insurgencies. It's impossible to keep up with what group controls which village. In some places it changes weekly. Now, don't get me wrong. Thailand has a pretty decent and modernized military. Up until very recently, the Malay Peninsula rebels kept it down to a dull roar. It's only in the last six months or so that the place has really gone to pot. But we aren't here to play a part in their civil wars. There is one group that demands our undivided attention, and they aren't Thai.

"Two minutes!" Stalker says over the comm.

Time to go. I squat next to the right-side door with Junkyard. Outback lifts him into position and attaches him with snaps to the back of my vest. At this point, I'm wearing a dog the way someone would wear a rucksack. And let me tell you, sixty pounds of dog with all his kit is nothing to sneeze at.

So you're probably asking how, exactly, does one convince a dog to rappel out of a helicopter? Turns out, you select a special operations canine the exact same way you select a special operations soldier. You begin with an animal that is already trained for police or military work, and you ask for the best of the best. The trainers submit their toughest candidates. From those, you assess them and whittle the list down until you find that one-in-a-million super-dog. You want the ones that demonstrate the highest degree of self-discipline, stress resistance, and a hyper-competitive spirit that drives them to excel. Those are the dogs that will follow you through anything, even if it means dropping out of a helicopter.

"One minute!" Stalker says.

I grab a fistful of 7/16-inch nylon rope. Double-loop it through the carabiner and make sure the gate is locked. We drop a total of four ropes before we descend. There were too many obstacles on the ground for us to land the aircraft, so we have to do it the hard way. Fast-roping is the preferred method. This is when you drop a very thick rope and just hang with your hands and feet. You ride it down somewhat like a fireman's pole, although the L-shaped body position is different. The technique is fast, as the name implies, but it is also the more dangerous method. I have yet to figure out how to safely execute it when I have sixty pounds of dog hanging off my back. The usual outcome is that I lose my balance at the bottom and fall backwards, which runs the risk of injuring the animal. That is why I'm linked in for a rappel descent. It is slow and more onerous, but safer.

I will tell you this much: When Stalker gives the "Positions" signal, Joes don't fool around. The Tomahawk hasn't even made it to hover yet, and I'm already leaning out the side. I can only wonder what's going through Junkyard's head. But he takes it like a champ. He wouldn't be here if he couldn't learn to tolerate it. I give one good bound and there I am, dangling six or seven feet below the aircraft and watching the trees pass beneath us.

Now here's the tricky part. Tonight I'm doing a lock-in rappel. That means I have to swap my guide and break hands and let the rope slide through my fingers. It sounds complicated, but it's the best way to rappel. When the word comes to "Go," I just let the rope slide through my guide hand and I descend smoothly through the trees to the ground.

I'm still the slowest out of the bird. There's no way to see what's going on around me. Everything is pitch black and at this point my NODs would be almost useless. Not that I could change my route, even if I wanted to; I'm going down whether I like it or not. I feel tree branches slapping against me as we descend. It's when I stop getting beat up by the trees that I know I must be low to the ground. The left hand comes up to my chest to brake, and we slowly descend until my feet touch the earth. I quickly pull out the rest of the line, so that we don't get yanked back up into the air when the Tomahawk ascends. As soon as Stalker gives the "all clear," the ropes are reeled in so that they don't fly about and risk damaging something.

The six of us all take a knee there in the dark woods while the Tomahawk takes off into the night. Lift-Ticket will fly around a little bit and make a number of false insertions to throw the bad guys off, just in case they hear us. The Tomahawk is optimized for stealth with its weird, asymmetric rotor blades, but it's still not exactly a whisper. The first order of business is to go NODs-down and make sure we haven't just landed in the middle of an enemy formation. The Joes all go prone in a loose circle.

I still can't see a thing. NODs require at least a little bit of starlight in order to function properly. The canopy here is so thick it blocks everything out. Even when Stalker cracks an IR chem-light, the NODs only show you what is right in front of your face. I can see the bush directly in front of me, but everything beyond three feet is just inky blackness. If we were in a place with fewer obstacles and more even lighting it would work better. Hopefully, the enemy is suffering the same handicap.

No worries, though. I have a fix for this.

I grab the switches on my shoulders and cut sling load. Junkyard hits the ground and finds his footing, but he doesn't move. He has no idea where he is or what is about to happen. In an ambiguous situation, a dog will look to his Dad for an example of how to behave. Right now, he is probably thinking, 'Dad is cautious, so I will be cautious.' I put my dog whistle to my lips and give his first command: "Search." It sounds like a sharp whistle, followed by a longer whistle that rises and falls. This is the exact same command taught to bird-dogs when they are looking for a downed fowl. But in this case, Junkyard has been trained to circle the enemy and spot for humans.

This is what he has been waiting for. Junkyard takes off into the brush. He doesn't hop around like an idiot. Watching him move is like watching a shark. As it turns out, it's not enough for him to be a superdog. We've also added a few features Mother Nature never intended: Surgically implanted titanium teeth, and a vest that includes a mast-mounted night-vision camera, Kevlar body armor, and a half-dozen other gadgets to make the dog into a four-legged ISR platform.

This provides Junkyard an unusual degree of freedom. If Junk spots an enemy, his routine is to freeze and point. He will not bark, as that would reveal us. And I can't see him or call out to him. Back in the day, that means I would have had to keep him on a leash. Instead, I bring up my wrist computer. It's nothing fancy... Just a modified smart phone mated to a Kevlar arm brace. I've got a little poking thing on my index finger so I can manipulate the screen without removing my glove. This phone allows me to send a variety of commands to the vest, and receive data from it.

At this particular moment, my favorite app is dog-vision. A spring-loaded mast on Junkyard's back flips open. The mast-mounted camera transmits video straight to my wrist. We get to see the world the way Junkyard does... Low to the ground, jerking back and forth, a little fuzzy and indistinct. His big bucket head pops into the frame occasionally. Unfortunately, the camera's night vision doesn't work much better than my own NODs. I switch to thermals. This is rather more useful. I still can't make out the foliage, which is depicted in a generic gray. But every now and then I see a white shape that indicates a heat source. There are some rats and birds. Junkyard ignores them. I almost have a heart attack when he comes up on a cluster of human-shapes, but I realize that the camera is pointing back at us and I am looking at myself. Junkyard stops every few seconds to listen and smell, and it takes him about thirty seconds to circle our entire perimeter.

Two quick whistles tells Junkyard to come back. I make sure to scratch his head so that he knows he did good. Stalker waits for me to give the thumbs-up before he starts executing hand and arm signals. We move in teams of three (or rather, four in the case of Junkyard) and take off on a slow march perpendicular to the river. I'm on point. Junkyard leads the way. If it weren't for him, I'm sure I would have tripped over every fallen log and broken my nose on half a dozen trees. Every ten minutes or so he hears something in the bushes. Twice I have to deploy him to scout. But we don't encounter the enemy. Not yet.

I glance at my watch. 1706 hours Zulu time. That makes it... What? 0006 hours local? I don't know if it is tomorrow or yesterday. Time zones mess with my brain.

We have probably moved a kilometer when Stalker calls a halt. Nobody relaxes. We all just go prone for a few minutes while he studies the map beneath a red light. Navigation by dead reckoning is all but impossible in a place like this. At least, until the some comes up and we can actually see where we are going. Thank God for Garmins. When Stalker is done examining the map, he visits each of us to check our status and let us know which way we are going. It is too early to talk. We have no idea whether there will be an enemy patrol coming to search for our insertion. Instead, Stalker just points at the map and traces the route from where we are to where we need to be. Then we're up and moving again.

Its harder than you'd think. The darkness and the dense foliage make movement difficult. But what's worse is the stress. I spend hours at a time in a state of red alert. Every step has to be carefully placed. Every moment I ask myself where I would take cover if things went wrong at exactly this moment. Every time Junkyard stops and listens, I have to hold my breath. The process is mentally exhausting. And on top of this, we have to build in the usual tricks, like listening stops and counter-surveillance switchbacks. We move slowly, but this is how it has to be. Even though the map says we are close to a road, we can't move in the open. Instead we stick to the forest, where every single step finds a vine, or a thorn-bush, or some other horrible thing to step on.

Beads of sweat cross my lips and I taste salt. I sip rubber-flavored water from the bladder mounted on my back. Three uncomfortable truths strike me: It is too hot, far too humid, and I'm way too old to be out here in the first place. Stalker taps me on the shoulder and points at his watch. 0200. And I think it myself, 'Seriously? We've only been out here two hours?' It feels like a week, and we've only gone nine klicks.

Then I see it. We are on the edge of the forest. I can see the amber glow of streetlights in the distance. It casts the clouds overhead in a baleful orange glow. Junkyard freezes. I've got my hand on his vest handle, and I don't so much see the change as I _feel_ it. He might as well be made of stone. Point. I kneel behind him, looking through his ears and right down his nose as if I were sighting a rifle. Junkyard's head is angled off perhaps twenty degrees from our direction of travel. I raise a fist to signal a halt, and seat my weapon in my shoulder at the high ready position.

A long moment passes before I hear the grinding sound of tracked vehicles. This is, of course, Bad News. The edge of the treeline is perhaps thirty meters away. We advance together until I reach the very edge of the forest and then high-crawl the last five meters. From this position I can see a paved road running north-south. The ambient light and open spaces let my NODs work the way they were intended.

When I see what we're up against, I know we're about to die.

This is how my weekend starts.

 **2**

Let's revisit yesterday.

It's 1700 when we come down the tarmac in Bangkok. The first thing that hits me is the unbearable, suffocating heat. Thailand only really has two seasons: Wet and dry. It goes without saying that it is just permanently hot, all year round. Now, I've been in some hot places, like Kuwait and Iraq. I remember time in tent city Ali Al Saleem, when I could cut new holes in the air conditioning ducts just so I could get a little cool air on my face. But the humidity makes Bangkok ten times worse. The air is thick enough that I feel like a lobster boiling in a pot.

And I'm not even worried for myself. I sweat. Big deal. You suck it up, hydrate, and maybe kick back a sports drink or two. The real problem is Junkyard. Dogs sweat a little bit through their paws, but they mostly shed heat by panting. If a dog is panting, he can't be sniffing. And if Junkyard isn't sniffing, he isn't doing his job. One of the advantages of using a mixed-breed like Junk is that his thinner coat makes him less prone to overheating than the German Shepherd or the Belgian Malinois. But still, have you ever tried to give a dog an IV? It's not fun for anyone.

The team starts with six. Seven, counting Junkyard. Which I do. With me are Flint, Outback, Low-Light, Bombstrike, and Dial-Tone. The first two are our gunslingers. The last three are the specialists. Low-Light is an expert marksman. Dial-Tone is our one-man walking Trojan satellite terminal. Bombstrike is the newest Joe. She is here to call in air support and act as ad-hoc air traffic control. We won't be seeing Lift-Ticket or Wild Bill again until it's go time. None of us are wearing uniforms. You know, not that anyone in GI Joe really wears a 'uniform' to begin with. Instead we each carry a green Army duffel over our shoulders that includes not just clothing but some of our more specialized equipment.

Stalker is the first to meet us on the flight line. I almost don't recognize him without his beret, but hats are prohibited on all runways as a safety precaution. He's joined by an older Colonel I don't recognize. His shoulder patch identifies him as belonging to USARPAC headquarters. The name reads 'Mewett.'

"Welcome to Thailand," Stalker says. "Hope you had a good nap, because this is about to get ugly." We collectively groan. Stalker is an old-school Joe. And I truly mean that. At one point, GI Joe was nothing but Stalker and Hawk sitting around a table with a stack of 'baseball cards,' trying to sort out who they wanted on the team and what it would look like. He's been everywhere from Tora Bora to the Borovian gulags. When he says this trip is going to be ugly, we believe him.

"And this is Colonel Mewett. He'll be briefing you on the situation. Drop your bags on the LMTV and hop in, because we're not stopping until we get to the TOC."

The LMTV is a 2.5 ton cargo truck with an open back. It's what you ride when the Army is too cheap to spring for a bus. The duffel bags get piled in the center, and we roll out of the airfield and towards the headquarters building. It's an older brick building that looks like it might date to the Vietnam. I suspect this is part of the Army's master plan to deceive the enemy by putting important facilities inside crappy buildings. But probably not.

We don't actually stop at the perimeter fence. No guard checks or baggage for us. Instead, the truck heads around the north side of the building where they have a large hangar door. We roll inside and the gate closes behind us. The hangar has been prepared for our arrival. Windows are blacked out. They've turned up the music, in case anyone tries to surveil us by bouncing a laser off the glass. The whole place smells like dust and diesel fuel. Colonel Mewett already has a projector ready. The image shows a map of Thailand. Or rather, the stretched-out bottom half of Thailand that we call the Malay Peninsula.

"This is Kaeng Udon," the Colonel explains. He points to a triangular piece of jungle wedged between Narathiwat and Pattani provinces. "And this is Bukhit Pajang." The map zooms in on an airfield. Bukhit Pajang sits on an awkward triangle of land just north west of a major river delta. The main runway is a two-mile north-south strip. A shorter, secondary runway forks off to the right. The eastern edge faces the sea. The center of the triangle includes terminal, hangars, tower.

"A private passenger jet carrying three crew and three passengers was hijacked this morning. Their plane transmitted a mayday signal and was forced down at the Bukhit Pajang airfield. The pilot ceased transmission shortly after landing. He describes being escorted to the ground by a pair of A-10 attack aircraft. We all know what that means."

He can only be talking about the Rattler, a design that Cobra cribbed from the A-10. They took the stock model and lengthened the fuselage to accommodate a traversing turret. The idea was that Rattler would have the ability to circle a point target while the gunner shot down at it from above, thereby giving the guns a longer time-on-target as opposed to strafing runs. They also re-worked the engines to mount on rotating wings, in order to give it a vertical-take-off capability.

"It has been three hours since the aircraft signaled the mayday. Your primary target is one Doctor Richard Burke. US citizen. Employed by DARPA. The other two passengers are his wife and daughter. The kidnappers have issued their demands, but we think they are just stalling. Based on the video they put out, we believe they are still being held in Bukhit Pajang. And we want you to mount a hostage-rescue operation within the next twelve hours."

There is a long silence in the room. We're all still trying to figure out if we heard him correctly. The very notion of mounting a hostage rescue in a time frame like this is unheard of. It is simply lunacy.

Flint is the first to speak. "And the Thai government is doing... What? Exactly?"

"They're letting us do what we do best," Stalker replies.

This clearly doesn't sit well with him. For a moment all he does is rock back and forth on his chair. The old hinges creak. He scratches the back of his head with this sort of passive-aggressive 'aw-shucks' routine. Then he shifts his weight, and the front legs of the chair snap down on the concrete floor. I never gelled with Flint. Too many SFOD-A types want to throw off that frat-boy ladies' man kind of vibe. This was the kind of guy who'd play volleyball with his shirt off just because he saw it in a movie. I imagined him getting beat up in High School and spent the next twenty years trying to compensate. He had recently switched over to one of those drum-fed AA-12 shotguns, and he rested it between his knees so that we'd all pay attention to his new toy.

"I'm sorry, sir," he says. "But maybe you could break it down for us."

Stalker shakes his head, but Mewett doesn't notice. "The Thai government just put out a message saying they won't take action," Mewett continues. "They are urging all parties to – and I quote – 'negotiate in good faith for the passengers' peaceful return.'"

"They're probably in on it," Outback guesses. He sits in in a chair reversed, resting his crossed arms against the back. Outback, I can work with. Even by Joe standards, he was one of the most driven and purposeful men I'd ever met. The idiot wore a bare white t-shirt printed with the word 'Survival,' for reasons which remain opaque to me. I mean, everybody gets that it's his thing, but Snake Eyes doesn't show up with a t-shirt that actually says 'Ninja,' right? Doesn't matter. The man had this glassy Vietnam-vet stare and came packaged with a relentless, almost psychotic focus. He was a true Spartan; Where Flint wore Ray-Bans, Outback would just stripe his cheeks with Kiwi and call it a day.

"We don't think so," Stalker says. He paces the floor and stares off into space as he extemporizes. "In the last six months, the Thai government has essentially lost all influence in the Malay Peninsula. What used to be a manageable problem set has spun dangerously out of control. The government wants to work with us, and they recognize that only GI Joe has the skill set to deal with this. So they're going to do the right thing: Stay out of the way and let us do our business the way we see fit. And that's what we're going to do."

Flint is the first to say what the rest of us are thinking: "This is crazy."

"Um, yeah." Outback says. "I hate to say this. And I mean, I _really_ hate to say this, but Flint is right. You're saying we are about to attempt a hostage rescue operation, on foreign soil, inside what we can only assume will be hostile territory."

"It's been done," Bombstrike suggests. "The Israelis did it in Uganda. They landed outside the airport and infiltrated in civilian vehicles."

"Yeah, and they got caught doing it. The only reason the hijackers didn't whack the hostages was because one of them had a sudden attack of conscience. I don't think counting on terrorists to do the right thing is a solid plan. Not to mention that they had a week to figure it out, and they got to debrief like half the passengers after the terrorists let them go." Outback stops to take a breath. "Here's the thing: This kind of operation takes a long time to prep. It's incredibly risky, even when we have the home field advantage. What you are proposing is basically suicide."

I've known Stalker for a long time. Longer than anyone in that room, in fact. The man doesn't flinch and he doesn't sweat. He just gives you this cold stare. It's the kind of look that lets you know he is reading you like a book, and he's just gotten to the part where he decides whether you're worth his time.

Outback flinches first.

"Look," he says. "I'm not saying I can't do it. Or I won't do it. I just want to make sure we really know what we are doing. I refuse to let this turn into a hash." There is an unspoken subtext here: 'Remember that time we went to Borovia, and you ended up in a gulag while I had to _Shawshank_ my way out through the sewer?'

"We're going," Stalker says. "I know it's ate up, and I know its dangerous, and I know we don't have the time to think about it. But that's why they called _us_. Because we're the only ones who can figure it out. Everybody on your feet, and let's find some kit."

The toys: SCAR-L Mk16 carbines with ten-inch close quarters combat barrels. The SCAR is fundamentally similar to the standard M4, including an identical pistol grip so that the shooter doesn't have to re-learn the controls. SOCOM purchased several thousand of these in 2009 but canceled them later, on the grounds that the SCAR's modest performance improvements didn't justify the cost of entirely replacing the M4. One can only assume the phrase 'good enough for government work' is the motto of Army acquisition. Suffice to say, the fielded weapons removed from inventory went directly to the GI Joe arms room.

Add to this the infrared laser, under-barrel grenade launcher, and a reflex sight, and tie it all down with a length of 550 cord. I don't bother with the three-point sling. They're handy, but over-complicated and tend to get in the way if you need to crawl or hurdle and obstacle. Instead I just use the vanilla sling and loop it through a carabiner near the shoulder of my load-bearing vest.

I've already mentioned Flint's love affair with the AA-12. The ten pound close-quarters model comes with the thirteen-inch barrel. The weapon is fully automatic and feeds twelve-gauge double-ought buck from a twenty-shell drum. His vest has both shoulders lined with additional shot-shells worn Pancho Villa style.

Handgun of choice is the Marine Corps – approved M45A1. The pistol started life as a Colt M1911. Its been around for over a hundred years, and no one has figured out how to improve on the design. The best they could do was tack on a Picatinny rail and a Tritium night sight.

Clothing is eclectic to say the least. GI Joe is famous (read: notorious) for its antipathy to military dress codes. I say, there is a time and a place. Operating on a battlefield with regular line units to the left and right, it generally pays to look like some kind of soldier. After all, friendly fire is a stupid way to die. Joe teams rarely operate in these scenarios. When you're in a small team, showing up somewhere nobody expects to see you, you can afford to dress down a bit. And maybe, just maybe, that crazy costume you're wearing will make the enemy hesitate for that split-second while he tries to decide whether you are, in fact, a soldier.

Each one of us picks up an MBITR hand-held radio and integrated headset. Each team member also carries an Iridium satellite phone with encrypted key card. Special mention must be made of the Panoramic Night Vision. I don't know what other units call them, but Joes tend to refer to them as the 'Spider-Goggles.' They come with four lenses piped into two optics, intended to widen the user's field of vision to somewhere around ninety-five degrees. This is more than double what you'd get from the standard PVS-14 monocular. For the same of comparison, the average human has a field of view between one-eighty and one-ninety degrees, so looking through a PVS-14 feels a bit like staring through a toilet paper tube.

Outback totes the M240L machine gun. Even in short-barrel weight-reduced configuration, it still clocks in at twenty-two pounds empty. The ammunition sits on his back in a modified ruck. The belt feeds from the pack through a tray mounted over the shoulder, and down into the weapon. In addition to all this, Dial-Tone is rucking that weird man-portable SIPR thing on his back. Bombstrike carries one of the larger SINCGARs radios. And Low-Light comes armed with a Barret M107 sniper rifle, just in case we need to reach out and touch somebody.

It's already getting dark and the chopper is waiting on the flight line. The Tomahawk is one of those experimental vehicles that GI Joe loves so much. It is essentially the same air-frame as the CH47 Chinook, and there all similarity ends. The Tomahawk moves both primary engines to sit beneath the front rotor, and adds an additional engine beneath the tail. The tail also houses a new rotor in a pivoting fantail assembly. Like most SF helicopter variants the Tomahawk includes a refueling probe, while asymmetric rotor blades drastically cut down on the noise. It's good, but still not quiet enough for us to count on landing undetected. There is really only one solution: Come in low and fast, make a couple of false insertions, and let us ruck it to the target site. Let's hope everyone paid attention in Air Assault.

It's ten minutes to go time, and I'm strapping Junkyard into his vest. Junk is an older dog; A Rottie-Shepherd mix I trained myself. That was before the special operations community standardized their canine program and selected the Malinois as the breed of choice. But he's the kind of one-in-a-million superdog that can run with the best.

"Is he ready for this?" Bombstrike asks.

"Of course he's ready. Are you?"

"I guess we'll find out. Is this idea really as crazy as Outback thinks it is?"

I can't help but laugh. "Oh, they wouldn't be bringing us in if it wasn't at least a little bit crazy. But I think we need to look at the bigger picture."

Bombstrike watches me load Junkyard into the plane. I snap his vest to a cargo hook in the floor, so as to secure him in the aircraft. Junk has been thoroughly desensitized to helicopters, and I've even rappelled out of a few with him. One time I even took him on a parachute jump. But he still appreciates some reassurance.

Eventually she gets tired of waiting for me to finish my thought. "And what is the bigger picture?"

"The plane was captured three hours ago, and we have twelve hours to finish this mission. Think about that. Nobody is going to even try to talk this one out. We are talking about a major operation that is insanely dangerous and could be politically embarrassing. That means the White House found out about this, decided on the most dangerous course of action, and called us up all in the space of about twenty minutes. I find that hard to believe. No one, in all of human history, has ever launched a hostage rescue mission that fast. It doesn't happen. There are American citizens who have been held captive for years without a rescue attempt. So what is it about this one particular Doctor that makes him worth accepting the risk?"

"Beats me," Bombstrike says. "What's the saying? 'Ours is not to reason why?'"

"That was 'Charge of the Light Brigade,'" I say. "And they got their asses kicked. Trust me, if you stay in this outfit more than a day or two you'll realize that these are the kinds of questions that come back to bite us in the rear."

 **3**

The HISS is an infantry fighting vehicle manufactured by Cobra-run industries and sold in thirty-six states that we know of. Like most Cobra vehicles, it is a strange piece of work. The single-man cockpit sits behind an armored glass canopy, and the gunner-slash-commander is seated in an open turret with double 30mm auto-cannons. Other tanks rest the hull between the treads in order to reduce the tank's profile and increase crew survivability. The HISS, in contrast, perches on top of the treads. This increases the profile dramatically and thereby makes the slab-sided crew compartment more vulnerable to weapons fire. On the other hand, it narrows the track base and allows for the construction of a v-shaped hull. Between this and the large track assemblies, the crew is well-protected against land mines and other explosives. All of these features make it an ideal vehicle for asymmetric warfare in dense jungle terrain where sight lines are restricted and improvised explosives a tool of choice.

And right now we are staring at one sitting squarely in the road not fifty meters from us. The huge treads churn the muddy ground. An IR spotlight sweeps left to right as the turret traverses. Cobra Vipers march down the path. Their faces are hidden by featureless chrome masks and their own night optics. They carry those 'Viper Rifles,' as we call them: The 7.62mm AK clones mated to 20mm grenade launchers.

The mud is suddenly very attractive to me. I fall flat and press my chin against the earth. Junkyard knows the drill. He drops next to me, and I hug him tight against my body. From an ambush position like this, we stand a chance of dropping all five Vipers before they kill us. But there is practically not much we can do to hurt the HISS. It's truly scary how close we can get in this dense jungle without truly knowing what is going on around us.

A Viper's polished jackboot crushes a twig not two feet from my face. He is so close, I could reach out and touch him. If he looks down, we die. If he is wearing thermals, we die. If somebody sneezes, we die. If Stalker doesn't cover up that IR chem as fast as humanly possible, then – you guessed it – we die.

I understand some people do normal things for a living. They go home and their spouse asks, "So, what did you do today?" And they say something like, "Well, I approved somebody's patent," or "I delivered bread to the supermarket." I wonder what that's like.

The Viper glances into the forest. His shoulders are sagging. His left arm is gripping his right wrist, with the rifle cradled between them. It has been a long night, and he is fatigued. I know the feeling. He just wants to go back to wherever he calls home to play video games and get some rack time. I suspect he is just scanning at eye level. Nothing to see here. Move along.

They pass by, and I can finally exhale. The patrol vanishes quickly. We wait until the HISS is beyond our hearing, and then we wait some more. When I'm satisfied that they have moved on, I try to rise. Before I even get to my knees, Junkyard alerts again. I freeze, and silently curse myself. It would be just like Cobra to leave a straggler, exactly for such an event. I sit there in a crouch for a few moments, but see nothing. Just as I'm losing patience, a tree branch moves. I catch it out of the corner of my eye. And then I dwell on it. But I see nothing, even through the NODs.

Stalker taps me on the shoulder. We have a short conversation using hand-and-arm signals. 'What did you see?' he asks.

"Movement," I reply.

"Infantry?"

"Don't know."

I can't see his expression in the darkness, but I'm sure he isn't happy. It's time to go. We move back into the forest about fifty meters and hold council.

"This is bad," Outback whispers.

"We'll deal with it," Stalker says. "We always do. Bombstrike... Got any air support for us?"

"Not until we are on target." We know the drill. The airstrike is a package. It moves in a carefully orchestrated sequence of surveillance, followed by attack aircraft, and finally the extraction. It has to be launched hours in advance of the on-ground action, and strike within thirty seconds of the anticipated time-on-target. If they launch too early, everyone between here and China will know what we are up to.

"We move out as planned. Mutt, keep point. Dial-Tone, send a sit-rep to Main. Let's go." We give Dial-Tone a minute to radio the Flagg and send up his spot report: Description and location of enemy forces.

We move parallel to the road now. It isn't far. Only four kilometers, and yet it takes us most of an hour. The caution pays off. By some miracle we avoid enemy contact. As we close on the last five hundred meters we look for a place to launch our bird. When we find a small clearing, Bombstrike takes a knee and readies her favorite toy. The Raven has been in the inventory for a few years. It is essentially a flying camera. The fuselage is the size of a football and it launches the same way. Bombstrike unfolds the wings, cocks her arm back, and throws it up into the air. Once launched a miniature propeller takes over. The Raven begins to circle the airfield. Each of us can tap into the video feed through our wrist-mounted computers.

NODs are unnecessary at this point. Stadium lighting and sodium lamps paint the world in shades of amber. We are on the west edge of the airport, facing the larger north-south runway. If Bombstrike's Raven is right, we should be able to ignore the eastern runway and focus all of our firepower on the west runway terminal. We are closest to the control tower, perhaps one hundred meters away. Beyond that is the terminal itself, and then a series of small hangars. I can see the captured Learjet parked outside. The facilities are very small small, for which we are thankful. I don't see any other civilian aircraft. I can only speculate their owners fled as governance began to crumble.

A series of obstacles confronts us. The first is a fifty meter gap between the wood line and the airfield perimeter. Beyond that, a coil of concertina wire rests at the base of a barbed wire fence. I guess it to be eight feet tall. And beyond the fence is nothing but open ground and tarmac. The air traffic control tower looms over the whole thing. The good news is that I don't see any patrols and the runway is clear of obstacles. The bad news? I check my watch. 0256 hours. We're running late. We move through the forest, parallel to the flight line, until we can stake out a spot facing the terminal. The situation is no better at this end. We're still looking at forty or fifty meters of open ground to cross. The northern tip of the perimeter has a guard shack and a vehicle gate.

A pair of Cobra Troopers are on duty. You can always tell the difference between the 'blue-shirts' and the actual Vipers. These are usually local thugs or wannabe military types that Cobra hires on an as-needed basis. They give them a little blue k-pot and a face mask and call it a day. Cobra Troopers are like a box of chocolates, but in general they are poorly armed and have less training than the Vipers. I hoped they'd be smoking and joking, but no such luck. The west side, facing the road, includes a sandbag machine gun nest complete with PKM. The east side has a green truck parked. I can't recognize the make from here. Must be some East European Soviet-era thing. It's got a four-seat cab with an olive drab canvas troop carrier tacked on back.

Time for a quick halt. We take up firing positions on the ground. Low-Light sites his over-sized rifle on the tower. Outback makes sure he can traverse his weapon up and down the flight line when the time comes. Flint stays with them to provide security. They will act as our support-by-fire element. Behind them, Bombstrike whispers into her hand mike.

"How are we looking?" I ask.

"0305. C-130s are twenty minutes out. They can circle for a little bit, but not forever. F-16s were late getting off the ground. We're expecting them no earlier than 0320."

At this point, we can only spare fifteen minutes for recon. Stalker keys the mike.

I look to the left and see headlights. A convoy of Land Rovers moves down the road towards the guard shack. There's no time to think and no time to plan. Stalker whistles at the team and then takes off at a run. It is an insane risk, but this is probably the only distraction we are going to get. It takes about seven seconds for a good runner to sprint fifty meters. That is an eternity when you're exposed on open ground. My uniform already feels like sandpaper on my skin. I am already dripping with sweat. Everything hurts. Junkyard is running close beside me. The only way we'll come out of this alive is if the guards all pay attention to the vehicles and the headlights kill their night vision. I leap over the concertina wire and roll. I don't stop moving until I'm resting against the base of the fence.

Junkyard is crouched beside me, panting hot dog breath in my ear. Stalker is just ahead. Bombstrike follow close behind and Dial-Tone is the last of all. He didn't have time to doff his commo backpack. It's rigid and awkward and at that moment I wonder if he shouldn't have been left with the gunslingers. But there's no time for regret. All we can do now is tuck ourselves against the fence, hold our breath, and pray.

"Are we dead yet?" Bombstrike whispers.

The guards lift the gate. The trucks drive on.

"We're good," I say. "We're good. Cutting the fence now."

 **4**

Well, that's FRAGO number one.

I take a minute to study the fence. It's a simple chain-link deal with metal posts. I don't see any rubber insulators that would suggest electrified wires. I start cutting with a pair of shears. The fence is old and rusty. It only takes a few snips to cut a piece large enough to peel back The team low-crawls through.

I hear Flint coming in over my MBITR. "Alpha, this is Bravo, over."

"Alpha," Dial-Tone whispers.

"We've got eyes on a Viper. Building one. Second floor window. The trucks pulled up in front of the terminal. Break." The fence scratches my head and tears at my pants as I worm my way through. "Lots of activity. Stay low. Trucks are coming back. Over."

I signal the team to stop. Everyone eats some grass while the Land Rovers turn around and exit back the way they came. We're not dead yet, so I can only assume nobody has noticed us.

"Alpha," Flint calls again. "I count three trucks in, three trucks out. Also, four personnel in the tower. They look bored. Over."

"Roger that." We start moving again, inching our way along the base of the fence towards the guard post. Stalker and Bombstrike take turns advancing. One takes aim at the guard shack while the other crawls forward. I keep glancing at the terminal. I can see a man silhouetted in against the upper story window, but can't make him out. It might be two hundred meters from here. Too far to run, even if an opportunity presented itself. We're getting closer to the lights now. Every inch we creep forward brings us closer to being spotted. This is the part of the plan that takes the most planning, and between the constraints of time and lack of intel we gave it the least. All that is left is to improvise and hope for the best - Which is not a sound strategy under any circumstances.

"We need to take out the guards," Stalker whispers. "Front gate."

I don't know that this will improve our situation. But it's something. Action is almost always better than inaction. At the very least he has given us a goal that we can work towards. Flint comes over the mike again.

"Alpha, this is Bravo. Viper in terminal is pacing. No activity in tower. Guards are going inside. Go, go, go!"

"Go!" I hiss, and scramble to my feet. I sprint fifty meters along the fence-line until I reach the guard shack. As a rule of thumb, a man can only stand guard for about an hour before he gets bored and his attention starts to wander. I can't see how the situation would get any better than this. It's almost ridiculous what you can get away with when someone is facing the wrong direction.

Junkyard hits them first. He takes off like a missile, leaping onto the Trooper's back and digging into his shoulder. The man is caught by surprise. He falls face-first onto the pavement and starts panicking. Doesn't even know what hit him. In another moment he will start screaming, and we can't have that. I move up and deliver a burst of gunfire to the back of his head. The suppressor does its job. There really no such thing as 'silenced' gunfire. The best we can hope for is still a popping sound that somebody might mistake for a hammer driving a nail. It's all about playing the margins. That second of doubt could be the difference between life and death

Stalker moves in, throws open the guard shack door, and finds himself face-to-face with two more Troopers. The first is holding a cup of coffee to his lips. The second is playing with his phone. For a split second they just stare at us in wide-eyed amazement. Then it gets real. Stalker kicks the first one in the shins and lets him splash himself with hot coffee. The second gets a butt-stroke to the face. He stumbles back against a desk with blood squirting out his nose. I'm second in the room. I strike him again with the butt of my rifle, and I don't stop until I see pieces of teeth hitting the floor. Stalker drops Coffee Guy to the ground and presses the barrel of his rifle right between the shoulder blades.

"Bravo, this is Alpha. Three down in here. How do we look?" I am breathing hard. My fingers shake from the adrenaline. "Over?"

"Looks good," Flint says.

Coffee Guy tries to mumble something. Junkyard snarls and bares his titanium teeth. Coffee Guy decides whatever he was going to say wasn't that important, after all.

I glance at my watch. 0309. "Bombstrike?"

"C-130 lands in ten," she says. "We're looking good."

"No, we're not," Stalker replies. "We're supposed to sit here for ten minutes? We're sitting ducks. How long before someone does a radio check on these losers?"

He's right. We're ahead of schedule. We can't count on being able to sit tight in the guard shack with our prisoners for the next ten minutes. Toothless starts mumbling something. I smash his head against the table and he drops. We quickly apply flex-cuffs and gags. I make sure to bind their hands around an exposed piece of pipe. The last thing we need is for them to start hopping around attracting attention. Dial-Tone goes around the room smashing every radio, telephone, and TV screen he can find. But this is just a temporary solution. We still have no way of making it two hundred meters across the flight line without attracting unwanted attention.

"Alright," Stalker says, keying the mike "Here's the plan. We're going to take their truck, push east, across the flight line and take the terminal. Dial-Tone drops the strobe as we drive. We'll pull up on the base on the tower and take the north side of the terminal. Bravo, I need you to cover the tower and the second floor of the terminal. Got it? Over?"

"Roger that," Flint says.

"Snap your IR chems. We're going to have CAS on station in nine mikes. Out."

Everyone takes a second to break their chemlights. The soft plastic tubes contain a crush-able ampule. Bend them just a little bit, and the chemicals mix and start to glow. These lights in particular don't glow so much. They might put out a faint violet light that you can just barely see in the darkness. But look at them through night vision and they're lit up like a Christmas tree.

Bombstrike is staring at me like she's seen a ghost.

"What?"

"We're doing this?" she asks.

"Yes, we're doing this."

"Because this is insane."

"This is GI Joe," I say. "Insane is what we do."

There's no way we can approach the trucks without being spotted. I can't see a driver, but there are a lot of dark shadows in the cab and the bed is facing away from us. This is exactly the kind of situation we need Junkyard for. I dispatch him to scout the truck, and observe what he sees through the mast-mounted camera. When I confirm it is all clear, we move out.

I've never seen a military vehicle that needed a set of keys. Nobody wants to wake up in the middle of a war and realize they can't start their tank because some doofus lost them. I crawl into the cab of the guard's truck and see that it has a flip-switch ignition installed. Fire her up. The rest of the team hops in the back. It is entirely likely, even probable, that Toothless and Coffee Guy will escape at some point in the near future. That is a risk we'll just have to take. I expect the madness to break loose in less than five minutes anyway. Junkyard jumps in the passenger seat next to me.

"Nice and easy," I tell him. Then I key the mike: "We're in the truck moving east. Hold your fire. Over."

Flint: "Truck moving east. Copy that. Over."

We drive across the flight line as slow as we possibly can. When we reach the halfway point, Dial-Tone drops an IR strobe. This will designate the landing point for the incoming aircraft.

Flint again: "You're spotted. Tower guards are on radio. Trying to raise you, probably. Over."

"Copy that, over," I say. Junkyard looks at me and whines. I have no idea how much of this he really understands. My best guess is that he's somehow aware of how stressed out I am. We circle around the north end of the tower and come around on the east side of the terminal building. I leaves the truck running when we debark. The engine noise will work to our advantage. Likewise, the headlights. Anyone facing the front of the truck will see silhouettes, but hopefully they won't be able to recognize us.

The terminal is brand new. Clean. Small, but nonetheless hyper-modern. Undoubtedly the work of the Thai government investing in southern Thailand, as part of their campaign to appease the rebellious Malay population. The west side looks like a single sheet of glass and stainless steel, to give the impression of a single giant mirror. It is too open. We are exposed, and forced to veer around the north edge of the building. I can't see anyone from here. Three hundred meters south, we spot the Learjet and some kind of Soviet-era cargo plane.

"Alpha, Alpha," Flint says over the radio. "Tower guards are on the phone. They know something's up."

"Got it," I reply. At this point we are perhaps twenty meters from the terminal's north entrance. There is nothing I can do. We are going to see the plan through to the end or die trying. _Alea iacta est_. Caesar was my homie.

"We're going to breach here," Stalker whispers. "Stack up."

The breach is the single most dangerous moment of the entire operation. It's one of those things that is simple in concept but all to easy to botch in execution. And in this particular instance, 'botching' the breach means lots people die. The fundamental idea is that the four-man team approaches a door and stands in a row. The first two men through the door immediately face left and right. They take aim at the corners of the room and then sweep their guns towards the center. The last two men split the center, and sweep their guns towards the corners. When it's done right, every man takes responsibility for a sector in such a way that it minimizes the chance anyone will be surprised, while at the same time maximizing the speed and aggression required to clear the doorway (which naturally becomes a magnet for enemy gunfire). There are a dozen possible variations of the drill, based on things like whether the doors open inwards or outwards, whether the door is centered on the room or placed in a corner. The devil is in the details.

Add to this the challenges inherent in any hostage-rescue operation. We are about to walk into a room with perhaps fifty civilian hostages and maybe three or four targets. The breach team has to very quickly identify the targets and drop them before they can return fire. Not only that, but we have to minimize the chance that they might kill hostages. It is entirely possible to shoot a man dead and still have him squeeze off a few shots, even if it is just an involuntary muscle spasm. The solution to this is to place your gunfire in such a way that it will strike the brain stem.

Here's a game you can play when you're bored: Find a friend and a magic marker. Draw a line down the middle of the face. You can start between the eyes, follow the bridge of the nose, continue down to the lips, and stop somewhere on the chin. The line you just drew marks the region you have place your shots if you expect an instant kill. Get it right, and he will 'drop like water.'

As you can imagine, this takes quite a bit of practice. Every member of the team has to drill it over and over again until they can anticipate each others' moves. In an ideal situation, I will be able to predict the location of each team member without looking. Needless to say, this is not an ideal situation. Nothing about this situation has been ideal, and nothing will be.

And now we have FRAGO number two: We begin to collapse into our stack, in anticipation of the breach. I'm fourth man. My job is to open the door while the other three rush in. But just as I go to reach for it, Junkyard signals. I hesitate. A Viper opens the door, steps out, and looks right at me. To this day, I cannot comprehend why he decided to go outside at just that moment. I like to think that he wanted a smoke break, and the other terrorists were so considerate that they made him take it outside. Probably not. Probably the tower told him to go out and see what was going on with the truck. But it's a nice thought. Now we get to see who dies first.

 **5**

Junk's warning gives me a split-second head start. I shoot him right in his shiny chrome face.

 _SNAP-SNAP!_ Done.

Stalker, Bombstrike, and Dial-Tone breach the room. There are three more Vipers waiting for them. The guns start chattering. I don't see it go down, but it takes less than a second. Two of them drop immediately. One Viper takes a round in the neck. He falls to his knees and sprays gunfire into the air. Bombstrike stands over him and finishes the job.

It's not a big room, but it is big enough to host an upper-story mezzanine. The second-floor lookout stands at the top of the stairs, in front of a window. He takes aim. Two hundred yards away, Low-Light sees this and puts a 50-cal round through the man's shoulder. Please understand, the 50-cal is bullet the size of your middle finger. It is the largest caliber rifle a single man can operate. The round doesn't puncture; It obliterates. Low-Light's shot completely severs the Viper's left arm and turns his shoulder into a kind of sauce. Marksmen have used the 107 to claim kills past 2,000 meters. Right now, Low-Light might as well be shooting the broad side of a barn.

The Joes check in one by one: "Clear! Clear! Clear!"

I immediately hear the sound of Outback opening up with the 240. Tracer rounds race from his firing position to impact against the top of the control tower. That is undoubtedly the most dangerous point on the battlefield. We got lucky sneaking past them in the truck, but now there is no possible way we can exfiltrate as long as there are troopers firing from the tower vantage point. I open the leaf sight for my M320. It makes a dull thumping sound and then a 40mm grenade explodes against the outside of the tower. I have no idea if I actually hit anybody. I just like to think I'm helping.

Time check: 0315. Five minutes to go.

"Anybody see hostages?" Stalker asks. And then, louder: "Doctor Burke? Anyone here?"

"Junk," I say. "Search." The team spreads out to the corner of the room, covering the entrances and hallways in case the enemy decides to counterattack. They kick the weapons away from the fallen Vipers, just in case any of them decide they aren't quite dead yet. I have to guide Junkyard away from the bodies, to keep him from alerting on them. Instead, he focuses on the doors and hallways. It only takes a few seconds before he stops and points at a door. I motion for Stalker to cover it. Just like before, I'll be the one to pull open the door and Stalker will immediately move in.

This time it goes as planned. The door opens, and we see the room on the other side is no larger than a closet. The people inside are already laying face-down on the floor, which is exactly what they are supposed to be doing. The worst possible outcome is for a hostage to panic and stand up in the middle of the shooting. I'm sure the flight crew have hostage-rescue training, and if Burke is as valuable as I think he is, his family might have been trained too. They peek up at us from the floor. Judging from their clothes, it looks like we have found two pilots, a flight attendant, and Mrs. Burke.

"Four," Stalker says into his mike. "I count four hostages. Anybody else?" One of them starts to stand up, and he shouts at them to stay down. It may sound cruel, but we don't actually know that these are the hostages. I direct Junk to search them for explosives. Then we pull security together while Stalker searches them for weapons. One by one, he confirms their names against the roster on his wrist computer.

"Maria Burke?" he asks the woman.

"Yes," she says. Her eyes are red and puffy. "Where's Sarah? Where did they take her?"

"Stay down until we tell you to move. We're going to find her."

"Still two short," I say into the mike. I order Junk to search again, and follow him through the building. Bombstrike and Dial Tone take up positions in the corners of the room, so that they can cover the opposite entrances. We search the back offices and behind the ticket counters. Junk even runs through the conveyor belts to the loading area behind the terminal. He comes up with nothing. Time is running out.

There is noise and static on the comm. Outback is still chattering away with the 240. Every few seconds we hear the howitzer-boom from Low-Light's 50-cal rifle. I can only imagine they are still chipping away at the control tower. At least, I hope so. If not, we have a real problem.

"Alpha!" Flint shouts over the mike. "Alpha! Enemy armor moving! Two hundred meters south of your position. Two HISS tanks moving north. Over."

Oh, boy. Stalker promised it would get ugly. The HISS may be a light-armor troop carrier, but that doesn't change the fact that they are bigger than us, badder than us, and nobody brought anti-armor rockets.

"Get back!" I scream. "Everyone back!"

I run up the stairs to the second story windows. It's not possible to fight the tanks and protect the hostages at the same time. Anything I do will attract their fire into the terminal. I've got to make the best of a bad situation, and attract that fire away from the hostages. All I can do is open my leaf sight and place a 40mm grenade on the lead HISS.

The grenade makes a hollow thump sound. It strikes the target canopy and detonates. TV gives people the idea that every explosion should be a burst of orange flame. Not so. There's a flash, for sure, and a cloud of smoke and dust and shrapnel explodes in every direction. The HISS is gray and hazy for a moment, but it doesn't stop. In fact, I'm pretty sure all I did was make it mad. When the tank returns fire, the glass and concrete just disintegrate around me. I seek cover behind a pillar and flinch as chunks of concrete turn to powder inches in front of my face. The gunner sweeps right, blowing out every window in the second story.

"Mutt?" Stalker calls. "You okay?"

I drop another grenade into my launcher. "I'm good! Hit it!" We return fire. Two grenades explode against the HISS without effect. Junkyard takes cover on the far side of the room.

At this moment, Outback turns the 240 on the lead tank. I watch a hail of tracer fire spray against the sides. It might look like a useless gesture, but its really not. Not entirely. A good barrage of small arms fire can make a tank crew button up, which makes it twice as hard to navigate. In the case of the HISS, that means suppressing the turret gunner and turning the forward canopy into a web of broken glass. Finally we get a kill shot. Low-Light places a 50-cal round through the damaged canopy. The tank stops moving. I can only assume he killed the driver.

But that's just a mobility kill. The gunner is still alive. He rotates to the left and starts spraying thirty-mike-mike in Outback's direction. Now the second HISS takes the lead. It circles around the right of its wounded partner, and fires long bursts into the terminal. I can only hope he is paying attention to me, and not just spraying the lower level.

Then I hear a very welcome sound. Bombstrike is crouching behind a staircase, talking into her radio: "I need you to come in north to south on runway one. Disregard altitude restriction. Two enemy armor... Roger, two enemy armor. Keep your fire west of the terminal. West of the terminal! This is danger close."

"Flint?" I ask, pissing all over radio discipline. "Where are you?"

"South of the cargo plane," he replies.

"Bombstrike!" I shout at the top of my lungs. I have to wave at her until she pays attention. "Keep it north of the cargo plane."

"You're cleared hot," she says into the radio. "Cleared hot."

It only takes a second. The first HISS takes a 105mm from above and completely ceases to exist. The sound is simply astonishing. My ears will be ringing for the rest of the week. Every bone in my body wants to peek out and watch the gunship rain down lead. I can hear it pounding the second HISS with auto-cannon until the 105 reloads and strikes again. Shrapnel, asphalt, and broken pieces of HISS glance off the concrete pillar.

"We're good," Bombstrike yells. She goes back to speaking to her mike: "Circle on station. We're moving hostages in fifteen seconds. I say again, moving hostages in fifteen seconds. Lift fire."

The runway lights shut down. It took them long enough... But at this point it is too little, too late. We've already got strobes marking both ends of the runway. The C-130 the tarmac and immediately brakes. And then it hits me: The tanks are in the runway. Oh, they're broken and torn up and on fire, but they're in the middle of the stupid runway. All I can do is watch in horror as Wild Bill comes right at them. The wing clears the wrecks by inches. If he was just a few feet to the east, one of the props would have struck a burning HISS and turned into shrapnel. It's a heart-stopping, unbelievable moment. For a full four seconds all I can do is stare. I'll always wonder if Bill has any idea how close we came to total catastrophe.

It takes Dial-Tone's yelling to snap me out of it. He is calling for the hostages to follow him onto the tarmac. We're actually very lucky. The group is small enough to be manageable, even if Maria Burke is in a state of borderline panic. They follow him out of the terminal and onto the flight line. Wild Bill's crew chief has already dropped the rear ramp by the time the hostages arrive. I hurry to join them. This is not a flight I want to miss.

There is more confusion on the inside. The seats are made of canvas straps. Everything is new and strange to them. The plane is lit with dim red lights. Bombstrike is trying to get them strapped in for takeoff, but Maria isn't having it. As soon as she realizes we are about to take off without her family, she loses her mind. Dial-Tone has to physically restrain her, to stop her from running back into the terminal. I honestly can't blame her. I haven't seen my kids in years. But at the same time, the only thing I want in the whole entire world is to be in the air and out of this place.

Flint, Outback, and Low-Light come running towards the ramp. We hear gunfire, and Flint pauses to empty his AA-12 in a northerly direction.

"Are we good?" he asks, swapping the drum. I can barely hear him. The engines are tremendously loud. The smell of exhaust threatens to choke us out. I gesture for him to come up the ramp so we can talk face-to-face. The only way we can speak is to lean in and shout directly into my ear. "They've got hostiles in the treeline on the north edge." He gestures with a karate-chop motion in the general direction of the gunfire.

I have to pass this information to Bombstrike and the crew chief. The chief shakes his head. Every few seconds I hear a burst of gunfire rattle against the skin of the plane. It starts to taxi, reorienting to the south so that it can take off. This is even worse. The rear ramp is still open, and we'll expose the passengers to enemy fire. Bombstrike is struggling to make herself heard over the comm. Eventually she just gives up and patches herself directly into the aircraft's internal net. It takes about ten seconds to relay new instructions to the gunship overhead: Place fire and gravity-vectored ordnance on the north treeline.

"Is that it?" Flint yells into my ear.

"We are missing two!" I reply.

Another burst of gunfire hits the fuselage. A bullet actually penetrates and strikes one of the flight crew hostages. They start screaming and bleeding all over the place. Dial-Tone has to dig into his own first aid pouch to apply a bandage. I force myself to ignore it. There is nothing I can do to help, one way or the other, and I've got bigger problems. I look to Bombstrike and start yelling. I know she can't hear me. All she does is raise a finger: 'Give it a second.'

Two seconds later, the ordnance hits. I don't even need to hear it. I can _feel_ the explosion. It's a concussion that shakes the entire plane and rattles inside your chest. At that moment everyone shuts up. This is the end of the world, for all they know. An instant later I hear cannon fire raining down. I imagine a forest being blown to splinters along with everyone in it. I don't even know what hit them, and the poor jokers probably don't know, either.

The plane is already moving. It feels like it's barely started rolling, before it suddenly lurches into the sky. That would be the JATO bottles. In a feat of inspired madness, somebody realized that a C-130 could take off faster if they strapped expendable rockets to the wings. It doesn't just lift off, it _leaps_ into the air at a 45-degree angle. I'm thrown off my feet, and Junkyard goes skidding across the floor to the rear of the plane. At least two passengers vomit.

But we're alive. We're alive, and we've made it.

Mrs. Burke cries all the way to Bangkok.


	2. Chapter 2

**6**

We are in Bangkok by sunrise. The team has started to refer to our dedicated hangar as 'The Pits,' most because there's no television and no internet. It doesn't matter much, though. We are too exhausted to care. Instead of amusing ourselves, we just drop our sweaty kit on the concrete and try to nap. My favorite position is the 'rucksack flop,' where you strap yourself into your ruck and lean back on it. I could write a book about all the crazy places I've fallen asleep. Seriously. If you get tired enough, you can sleep anywhere. Junkyard curls up between my legs and rests his head on my thigh.

It's noon when I wake up.

MREs for breakfast. Fun. I'm sure I could eat at the nearest chow hall. Heck, this place probably has a burger joint. But I'm too tired and too old to bother walking around outside looking for food. Just the idea of the sunlight and the people makes my head hurt. Instead, I eat a green pouch full of sloppy joe filling. Not an actual sandwich, mind you. Just the filling. Junkyard gets a tin of wet dog food from my ruck, and a few pieces of MRE snack bread. He's so worn out he can barely move, and I can't blame him.

It turns out Flint is already debriefing the hostages. I don't think he even bothered sleeping. Right now he has Maria Burke inside a small office. I stand outside the door and look in the little window. Her back is facing me, so that she won't be distracted. This always impresses me, because it turns out debriefing is one of the things Flint is actually good at. His technique is methodical. I would even say mechanical. But he has enough charisma to maintain her interest and knows when to stop before the questioning turns into badgering. It is thorough no matter how you look at it.

At first he just makes small-talk, asking about her family and her husband, where they met and what they do for work. Nothing much falls out of this. They're a pair of bookworm types that do medical research for various diseases. I don't know half of the words she uses, and I know Flint doesn't either. But he is just building rapport. If there's anything he needs to know, he'll have a talk with someone who is spun-up on it and come back to re-engage. More than once she starts to tear up when she talks about her daughter, Sarah. He just lets her tell her story and cry until she wears her self out. Then he gets her back on track.

The part I find most interesting is why they were coming to Malaysia to begin with:

"We got an invitation from David Brahamiah," she explains. "He was an old friend of Richard's. David asked him to come to Indonesia to help with research. He claimed he was doing medical trials."

"Alright," Flint says. "And who exactly is Brahamiah?"

Maria plays with her phone for a moment. She shows him a photograph of a dark-skinned man with spectacles. I suspect he is Indian. "He's a Doctor. A marine biologist. They knew each other in grad school. I don't know what he does nowadays, but the last I heard Brahamiah was working on finding practical applications for bio-materials. For example, when he was a grad student he worked on a project to develop chitosan bandages."

"Chitosan?" Flint asks.

"It's a carbohydrate polymer derived from shrimp shells. They mix it with vinegar and it forms a kind of paste. Anyway, when it is applied to a wound, the negatively-charged red blood cells are attracted to the positively-charged chitosan. The bandage immediately adheres to the wound. But that's not important. It's just an example of the kinds of things he was interested in.

"We started our flight from India, where we were visiting friends. We rented a private plane and flew towards Thailand. Before we even made it over the peninsula, another jet plane met us. The pilot had to land because we thought they would attack."

Then she walks him through the rest of the process. The aircraft landed and soldiers were waiting for them. Maria doesn't know what Cobra is, and she doesn't understand the nomenclature of the different troops and equipment. But she describes their dark blue uniforms and chrome-faced helmets. She claims she was separated from her husband and her daughter for reasons that still aren't clear to us. And they waited, there in the airport, until we arrived to rescue them.

"Is there anything good?" Bombstrike asks.

I hadn't even noticed her behind me. I've never gotten a good read on Bombstrike. She's one of the newest Joes, and her claim to fame is that she was one of the first few women to graduate from Ranger School after they officially opened it to females. I don't know her very well, so I keep her at arm's length and give her the short version: "Doctor Burke was on his way to Indonesia to meet a scientist buddy. You know the rest."

It's almost funny to watch how Bombstrike's face curls up as she mulls it over. "That doesn't make sense," she whispers. "They hijacked a plane they weren't even interested in, just so they could snatch this one guy? They would be better off kidnapping him off the street."

All I can do is shrug. "That's Cobra for you. They do a lot of things that you'd think are counter-intuitive, because they have to show off and flex their muscles. It's almost like this perverse kind of theater."

"Does that make us the audience?"

"Not just us," I explain. "Potential recruits. Anonymous donors. Future customers for Mars-brand equipment. And don't forget Bob the random Thai rice farmer. They don't need everyone in Thailand to join them. They just need them to think twice before resisting."

She looks through the window at Maria. Flint glances at us, but doesn't stop the interview. They are going over details now. Who spoke? Who was in charge? What accents did they have? Who knew you were traveling? All those kinds of things.

"And why did they leave her behind?" Bombstrike wonders.

"Maybe they planned on splitting them up. Maybe they were going to ransom her, or use her for a proof-of-life video."

"You're just speculating."

"Yeah," I say. "I know. Half the time that's all we've got, when it comes to these guys. Most of the time it's just your everyday whack-a-mole stuff. But sometimes you get in deep and you realize there are plans within plans, and not even the Cobra officers know all the details."

I use the word 'officers' loosely. The best we can figure out, Cobra has some leaders at the squad and platoon levels. They also have their most senior leadership: Destro, Baroness, and the Commander himself. Between those two extremes is a poorly-defined layer of mercenaries, technical experts, and assorted freaks that seem to constitute their mid-level management. I think of them as cell leaders, although that is only accurate some of the time.

We move on. Dial-Tone and Stalker are in the next room, with Colonel Mewett. They are busy going over the maps of southern Thailand and northern Malaysia. Big-screen computer monitors take up most of the wall and display different kinds of maps. I see imagery on one. The combined obstacle overlay on another. They are running CPOF battlefield management software, and piping in video feed from a UAV somewhere. And then there are some maps so esoteric I can't even guess at their purpose.

"Are we getting anywhere?" I ask.

"Not really," Dial-Tone says. "We are trying to look at timelines and extrapolate where they would likely have taken the hostages. But we're also working off the assumption that they stayed in Thailand. If there was another aircraft waiting at the runway, they could be anywhere in the world by now. And what's even worse is that nobody really knows where the Cobra zone of control begins and ends."

"So what do we know?" I ask.

Dial-Tone traces the Malaysia – Thailand border region with his finger. "This whole area has a lot of signal activity. But their radio discipline is tight. We are getting some cuts and some un-encrypted traffic, but it's all tactical stuff in Thai or Malaysian. You'll have to forgive me for saying this, but it just doesn't sound like Cobra. So we're working off the assumption that anything un-encrypted is going to be local militia types talking on their handhelds. The encrypted stuff is most likely Cobra."

This is what is called 'traffic analysis.' Even when you can't read the enemy's message traffic, you can at least make educated guesses about their dispositions and activity based on the number of transmissions they are making. Direction-finding equipment like the Prophet can give you a line-of-bearing towards the target transmitter. Increased activity implies more assets moving into and area, or perhaps that there is some operation about to kick off.

"The Cobra AO, as best we can define it, includes the entire Malaysian border, and almost the entirety of Yala and Narathiwat provinces. On the Malaysian side, they report losing control of a big chunk of Kelantan province."

This is Cobra's modus operandi. They specialize in moving into ungoverned or under-governed places where people have bitter rivalries or brewing civil wars. And this is one of those fights that has been going on for a long time. The Thai have been dealing with a series of ethnic and religious insurgencies since the 1940's. At least, officially speaking. The real grudge goes back all the way to 1785, when the Kingdom of Siam conquered chunks of Malaysian territory. The people who live there are still mostly Malay. I don't understand why people can't get along in the world, but it's not my job to figure it out.

"But," Dial-Tone continues. "There's still so much we don't know. Satellite imagery is getting limited results, mostly due to the thick jungle canopy. We can't operate UAVs due to their air defenses. So we're stuck with this until we get boots on ground. And that means HUMINT."

HUMINT, or 'Human Intelligence' is a fancy word for 'spying.' There are actually 17 agencies in the United States that serve some kind of intelligence function, and I would be willing to bet half of them have intelligence collectors operating in southern Thailand. They will be busy looking for refugees, internally displaced persons, and people who have some kind of ability to travel into the denied area. But this is outside Dial-Tone's expertise. He looks to Stalker to finish the briefing.

"You're going to Narathiwat," Stalker says. "And take Bombstrike with you. It'll do her some good. Make contact with our asset at his safe house. He will be expecting you."

"Who is it?" I ask. Stalker hands me a piece of paper. I take one look and cringe.

"Oh, come on," I say. "You've got to be kidding me."

 **7**

Bombstrike and I walk the streets of late-night Narathiwat. Junkyard follows at my side on a leather leash. We're in our civvies, packing concealed handguns, picking our way through a market as we look for our contact. I feel bad about putting Junk on a leash. It is completely unnecessary, except to keep up the illusion that I am a civilian tourist taking his dog for a walk. In Southern Thailand. Yeah, I never said it was a good disguise.

The streets are littered with market stalls where fishermen families sell their goods. Fishing is everything in Narathiwat. They take these long canoes called kolae, paint them with all kinds of decoration and imaginary monsters, and spend day in and day out going up the Bang Nara river to fish the ocean. And every night they bring their catches back to town and set up shop. Everything smells like salt and spice. Where they don't sell fish and vegetables, I see vendors with stacks of blue jeans or knockoff DVDs. Naked light bulbs dangle from improvised power lines. Vegetables boils in pots of water. Old ladies peek out behind stacks of vegetables. Almost everything here comes cooked on a stick. This is a place where people sell gasoline in soda bottles and drink soda from plastic bags. Hey, whatever floats your boat, right?

Motorcycles are ubiquitous. I only rarely see a car or one of those little tuk-tuk motor-cart things, but practically everyone owns a motorcycle. Most of the people here are Malay, rather than Thai, but only about half of the women bother to wear a hijab. I watch a girl in a yellow soccer jersey paint a portrait of His Majesty, Muhammad V of Kelantan. She smiles at me, but I look away. The whole place is overwhelming and obnoxious. And I'm from Jersey.

Of course we stick out. At six-foot-two, me and my Tom Selleck mustache must be visible from space. Bombstrike tries to hide beneath a hijab, and fails spectacularly. There are almost no Westerners here. Narathiwat was never known for its tourist industry, and the spiking Malay violence keeps them away. I'm not even particularly concerned about Cobra. They might outsource to local gangs or warlords, but the core Cobra leadership are narcissists with a taste for spectacle. Most of their recruits are drawn from the Western countries, so a squad of off-duty Vipers or a Siegie would attract just as much attention as we do. What worries me more is being kidnapped for ransom by some resident jihadists.

And then I worry about what I don't see: Cops. Army. Security of any kind. Their absence is conspicuous.

"You need to smile more," Bombstrike says.

"Not going to happen."

She grins and pretends to be playing with her cell phone. "If you don't look like you are having a good time, people will think you are up to something. Is this your first time in Thailand?"

"No," I say. "I've done the Cobra Gold exercise twice." This is an annual multinational military exercise in Thailand. Despite the name, it actually has nothing to do with fighting Cobra. The first iteration was held in 1982, which means it actually predates Cobra's emergence as a organization. I have no idea where the name comes from, but they should probably change it.

"So what's the problem?"

"Too many people. Not enough dogs."

I'm joking, but only a little bit. The Malay are in the middle of a culture war between the modern and the archaic, and jihadist extremists have staked out their territory. Many Malay actually do own dogs. But there are also fundamentalists who perceive them as unclean animals who should be eradicated, and even go so far as to perform cleansing rituals after touching one. Like so many things in Thailand, a simple decision about how to live your life can mean choosing a position in a violent ideological struggle.

Bombstrike has no patience for me. "Well, if you wanted to go commune with nature you should have hung with Outback."

We stop in front of a two-story house. The walls are painted with pink brick. Fluorescent bulbs dangle from a corrugated tin roof. Out front is a little boy with an over-sized Hawaiian shirt. I know exactly who owns it, and it tells me that we've found the right place. The kid looks like a typical Asian Malay, but his hair is done in a frizzy Afro. A parakeet perches on his shoulder and eats seeds from his hand. Neither one of them seems surprised to see us.

"You want Mister Chuck?" the kid asks. He doesn't even look at us, but just keeps paying attention to the bird.

I glance around, wondering if I'm being set up for some kind of joke.

"Yeah," I say. "I want Mister Chuck."

"Mister Chuck says mutts not allowed. Pretty sure he means you." Then he glances at Junkyard. "Dog is okay. He can come in."

Bombstrike starts laughing.

"Okay, kid, very funny. What now?"

The child just holds out his hand, as if this is a totally normal thing. I look at Bombstrike. Then I look at Junkyard. Neither of them is offering any sympathy. So I wind up pulling ten dollars out of my pocket and handing it to him. The kid unrolls it and wrinkles his nose.

"Seriously?" he says. "Come on, man. I know you have ICF. Try harder."

ICF is an acronym for Intelligence Contingency Funds. It's a cash fund set aside specifically to pay for intelligence operations that includes non-attributable payments, gifts, and even the occasional bribe for snotty little kids. Like this one. I dig into my pocket again and give him another ten. I'm pretty sure in Thailand that's like a month's rent for this place.

"There we go. That'll do. Okay, you can come now."

Now the parakeet speaks up. "Hey sweetie. Hey sweetie."

Bombstrike shakes her head and looks at me. "Does he actually know where to find Chuckles?"

All I can do is shrug. "If he doesn't, that bird definitely does."

The kid leads us around the back of a house, down a flight of sagging stairs and through a dark alley. I don't know if there is a wrong side of the tracks in Narathiwat, but if so, we are headed that way. He takes us away from the crowded market street, over a small canal, and past what I can only assume is a strip club. I see handbills promising a good time for tourists, and half of them are pasted over with jihadist condemnations.

"So, um, how do you know Mister Chuck?" Bombstrike asks.

"Oh, we go way back." Now, I don't know about you, but for me the words 'way back' mean OIF I. This kid looks ten years old, so I have to wonder exactly what he means by that. "My name is Aziz anak Adnan."

"And you're Malay?"

Aziz gives her a look that suggests she must be on drugs. "Nah, screw that. I am Orang Asli."

"I don't know what that is."

"You have Indians in America? Is same-same."

All I can do is shrug.

We are definitely in nightclub territory now. Half the buildings are decorated in neon lights. The ground vibrates with overlapping techno beats. Thailand has always been this weird competing mix of the ancient and the hyper-modern. Some kids are throwing a rave in the middle of an abandoned Buddhist temple. A long-tailed macaque smokes a cigarette while his owner uses Skype. A tuk-tuk driver lets a rooster ride in his lap. It crows at us as he drives by.

Junkyard doesn't whine, but I know he is stressed. This whole place is just sensory overload for me, so I can only imagine what the world must look like to him. We go to great lengths to desensitize the dogs so that they can tolerate things like gunfire and helicopters without becoming unglued. One of the biggest hurdles for any working animal, whether a service dog or a police horse, is the ability to tolerate loud noises and unexpected stimuli like you might find in a chaotic urban environment. When Junk was three days old I started poking his ears with a swab and playing 90's music just so he'd grow up accustomed to living in an obnoxious world.

"Good dog," I whisper, just to let him know that everything is okay.

We come to a patch of ground that I can only describe as a depression. It is a sort of sunken area where the red tile rooftops only rise up to ground level. If Chuckles has gone underground, he means it literally. The buildings here are stone, and they all sort of mash together in this disorganized rat's nest of narrow alleys. Right angles are entirely absent. The place is build directly under a row of train tracks, and I am frankly amazed the ghetto hasn't just collapsed and killed everyone inside. Aziz leads us down yet another flight of stairs, and we find ourselves face-to-face with the ugliest bruiser I have ever seen. The door is reinforced with pieces of rebar. Yellow light spills out into the alley.

The bouncer puts up a hand. Let me guess: No dogs allowed.

Aziz isn't impressed. "They're cool, man. Let us in."

Big Ugly stands aside. He glares at us as we walk past. I don't know whether he doesn't like my high-and-tight, or if he resents taking orders from a ten-year old. Probably both.

"Here we go," Aziz says. "Welcome to Phra Chao Sua Ban."

The place is a Muay Thai Fight Club. It is packed – and I mean literally packed – with people. Golden lamps ring the outer walls and pillars. Blonde Russian girls serve over-sized margaritas to cheering idiots. In the center stage, a pair of boxers go at it behind a chain-link fence. The fighters are made of pure muscle. Their shins are knotted with scar tissue and their shoulders covered in fish-scale tattoos. The fight is bare-knuckle, naturally. You might mistake it for an MMA match, except that the boxers never go to the ground. Instead they trade kicks to the outside of each other's legs, hoping to tenderize the opponent's knees and thighs until they are took weak to move. I'm almost shoving my way through the crowd, wondering if this is what it must feel like to die in a zombie movie. The place is too much, even for Junkyard. The hair on his back turns into a bristly forest. I stroke his head to keep him calm.

Not for the first time today, I'm grateful to be tall. I can look over the top of everyone's heads and spot our contact. Sitting at a table in the middle of it all: Charles "Chuckles" Provost. The moron is wearing a louder-than-usual Hawaiian shirt with a pair of cheap aviators, and some of those so-called 'tactical' khakis with the sewn-in knee-pads. He is screaming at the boxers like a drunk soccer hooligan. It takes him an extra minute to notice us, and then he's all smiles. Like always.

"Mutt! My man! Awesome!" Chuckles is practically shouting over the music and the crowd. "And who is this? Is she one of us? What's your name?"

Bombstrike immediately launches into a recitation of her cover story. "I'm – uh – Lisa, and I'm a grad student from-"

"No, no," Chuckles interrupts. "I mean what's your real name?"

"Um... Bombstrike?"

"There we go. And is this Junkyard? Nice puppy. Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" Chuckles holds out his hand and Junkyard snarls. Please understand: It's something he never does. It's something he's trained and conditioned not to do. But I can't even blame him. "Okay, never mind. Barkeep! Kor peum eek! Right here."

I pull up a chair next to Chuckles, and keep one hand on Junkyard for reassurance. My other hand adjusts the gun in my waistband; Partly because I want to be comfortable, and partly because I could use some reassurance, myself. Aziz hovers around Chuckles' shoulder like a pet bird with an even smaller pet bird on his shoulder. Bombstrike waits until the waitress drops off drinks, and pretends to sip without actually drinking it. Even if we weren't on assignment, I wouldn't blame her. The Thai serve their beer with ice, and that's just not right.

Chuckles, as usual, is the first to speak. "Hey, have you seen this guy?" He points to one of the boxers. "His name is Mat Dhobi. You know who would make a great GI Joe? This guy, right here. Why is it we have like fifty ninjas but nobody that does Muay Thai? That would be awesome."

"I'm sorry," Bombstrike interrupts. "But are you high? I mean, right now?"

"No," I say, rubbing my temples. "This is Chuckles."

"World's greatest secret agent," Aziz adds, as if on cue.

Bombstrike looks unimpressed.

"Yeah," Chuckles says with a grin. "I pay him to say that. Anyway, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"We need a favor, and I don't think you're going to like it."

He laughs at this, just like he laughs at everything. "Oh, I've heard that before. Give me your best shot."

 **8**

I don't know why I do this. I honestly don't. And days like this make me question my sanity. Not that I don't have reason to think everyone else is crazy. It's just that if the whole world seems crazy to me, then I'm at least willing to consider the possibility that they all know something I don't. And that would mean I'm the one who's crazy, right? Does that make sense? Because it doesn't make sense to me. These are the kinds of things I think about when I meet someone who deals with stupidity the way a fish deals with water.

"Doctor Richard Burke." I flash a photo on my cell phone. "Geneticist. Captured by Cobra, along with his daughter. She's... What? 13?"

Chuckles doesn't even look. "Never heard of him."

It's like talking to a four year old. "I know you haven't," I continue. "But we didn't come here to ask you. We need you to talk to somebody with placement and access to this kind of thing. Kidnapping. Human trafficking. Whatever."

"Oh wait!" Chuckles says. He suddenly grabs the phone out of my hands and studies it as if it might hold the meaning of life. "This guy is into genetics? What kind? Please tell me it involves dinosaurs. Because I really want to shoot a dinosaur."

Bombstrike buries her face in her hands. "Can you please focus for just one second? And then you can get back to whatever this is?"

One of the boxers goes down and everyone starts to cheer. Chuckles is on his feet, hooting and hollering. "Yes!" he shouts. "Yes! Get him. In the face. Oh God, that must hurt. Okay. Where were we? Right. Hey, look... You know this place is falling apart, right? I mean, I'm having the time of my life, but these guys?" He points at the photo on my phone. "Anybody with money and-or an education is getting out of Dodge. Have you already checked Bangkok? Because that's where I would go if my life wasn't so freaking awesome."

"We hope he is still in the area. He was trying to visit a scientist friend in Indonesia. Their plane got forced down and captured by Cobra."

"Whoa!" Chuckles says, throwing up his hands. "Stop right there. You do not want to say the C-word. See that blonde chick who pretends to be Russian? She works for them. That guy behind the bar with the machete? Him too. And the dude selling lizards? Okay, I don't know about him but he seems pretty shady. You know, by Fight Club standards."

"Great," Bombstrike says. "Thank you. You could have told us that earlier."

"Right, but then-"

"Stop. I don't want to hear it. Just tell us what we need to do."

He thinks about this for a minute. I drum my fingers on the table. Junkyard whines.

"Fasha," Chuckles finally says. "I got it. We need to see the Harimau Jadian." I'm about to ask the obvious follow-up questions, but it's too late. He's already on a roll. "Check it out. There's this great place in Bang Si Khao. It's called Wat Phra... Something. I don't know. Anyway, these guys set themselves up as Malay ethnic rebels, right? And then when the jihadists started to take over they were like, 'No way, man.' They'd rather deal with the dorks in blue than the crazies. You know what I mean?"

I have no idea what he means. He is speaking a foreign language at this point.

"But the point is, they love me and they love my money and maybe... Just maybe... They like me more than they like You-Know-Who."

I give him a deadpan stare. "That does not inspire confidence."

"Don't worry about it. I'm Chuckles, and that means I'm..." He stops for a dramatic pause. Nothing happens. I can only imagine this is the part where Aziz is supposed to say his line. But the kid is gone. I try to resist the urge to look around, because that would imply that something is wrong. But at some point while I was dealing with this knucklehead, the kid completely took off. We didn't even notice it.

"Mister Chuck!" we hear him shout. He comes pushing his way through the crowd, sliding between spectators and hurdling a card banister. The parakeet is nowhere to be seen. "Mister Chuck! We got big problems! Look!"

I can't actually hear what Chuckles says over the sound of the crowd, but his lips form the shape of some pretty creative curse words. A group of Thai soldiers have entered the club. At least, they look Thai, with their tiger-stripe cammies and black berets. But the Viper rifles in their hands most definitely are not. One of them is in the process of beating the bouncer to death. Another one is talking to the blonde waitress. She looks in my direction and we make eye contact from across the room.

"Time to go," Bombstrike says.

"Follow me!" Aziz shouts. He heads towards the back and immediately vanishes in the crowd.

At that point, it all predictably falls apart. A soldier sprays the ceiling with automatic fire. Half of the crowd drops to the floor. The other half are either too drunk to react or are running for the exits. Like us. Chuckles reaches into his shirt and pulls out a .45. He aims in the general direction of the soldiers and empties the mag. Nobody has any idea who or what he hit. But he gives them something to think about.

Bombstrike is running. Junk and I are following close behind. She runs straight for the bar, hurdles it, and keeps going into a store room on the other side. I try to follow her, but I'm not as young as I used to be. I tumble and fall flat on my butt on the other side. A barrage of gunfire sweeps the counter-top. Broken glass and liquor rain down on my head.

"Junk?" I ask. He scrambles around the other side of the bar. I'm just about to move when I realize I am sitting right next to the Malay bartender. You remember. The one with the machete that Chuckles pointed out earlier. We glance at each other for a moment, and both come to realize this bar isn't big enough for the two of us. He comes at me with the machete. I let it fall on my left arm. Nobody told him I'm still wearing my bite-proof wrist armor under my coat. I plant a boot in his chest to make some space. He falls backwards, sprawling across pieces of shattered glass that cut his hands to ribbons. In a split-second, Junk is on top of him. The dog digs in with this titanium teeth and doesn't let go until I get back on my feet.

I shout, "Heel," over my shoulder as I run. Junkyard drops the bartender and follows close behind. Now I'm in this crappy little room stocked with cheap booze and sweaty rags. The only way out is a ground-level window about seven feet off the ground. Bombstrike is already halfway through, and Aziz is on the other side trying to help. This isn't going to be fun.

"Come on, boy," I say, holding out my hands. Junkyard jumps into my arms, I quickly boost him up to the window. It's a mad scramble, and his back paws pummel my face. Chuckles follows me into the store-room and slams it shut. He barely has time to take a breath before gunfire splinters the door and shatters liquor bottles to his right. I honestly could not tell you how the man is still alive. But he is, and he's laughing.

It takes me a moment to worm my way through the window. I'm back in the rat's nest beneath the tracks. At this moment, we are completely lost. The paths here are so twisted and broken that we can't see more than five meters in any direction. Bombstrike drops her purse and pulls out a handgun. I'm already breathing hard. Chuckles follows us through the window. Or he tries, at least. He's halfway through and I'm dragging him by the collar, as he kicks and empties his second magazine at someone I can't see.

I have no idea what is going on around me. My world contracts to a series of fifty-meter targets; I only can only think about what is right in front my face. I'm already breathing hard, and I know we're just getting started. A good example: The gun in my waistband doesn't want to come out. I'm so busy messing with it that I don't even realize a Viper is coming around the corner. And I don't mean some mook with a mask. I mean real Vipers, with the chrome faces and body armor. In the second it takes me to free my pistol, he has already leveled his gun. Aziz screams. Junkyard grabs his wrist and pulls. Automatic fire goes wide, chipping off pieces of tile and masonry. Junk hangs on for dear life. Bombstrike takes aim and puts two in his face. The first shot glances off the face-plate. The second penetrates. He goes down. Permanently.

"This way!" Chuckles shouts, and we start running. He takes two turns and then jumps over a chain-link fence. Bombstrike and Aziz follow. I'm just about to when I stop and look back. Junkyard is close behind. But I just now realize he is limping on an injured paw. He can't even walk on it. Instead he just does this pitiful three-legged hop, crying the whole time. There's probably a piece of broken glass stuck in there somewhere. But I don't have time to help. The best I can do is lift the edge of the fence while he dives under it and joins Bombstrike on the other side.

I'm just about to make the climb myself, but Aziz shouts and points. I spin, handgun ready, and take aim at a pair of Vipers. I give them three quick double-taps. The gun is astonishingly loud. Doubly so in the tightened-up alleys. I don't know if I hit anyone, but I put the fear of God in them. The Vipers fall back behind a wall, and fire blindly around a corner. They almost hit me. I actually feel a bullet pass through my jacket without touching my skin. I shoot twice more, just to discourage them, and then I run.

Now here is where it gets absurd. We're running as a group, but still separated by the fence. I'm still scared that if I take the time to actually hurdle it, the Vipers will punch my ticket. The best I can do is look for a break in the fence. Then it occurs to me that I'm still running down a straight alley. There's not much difference between shooting at a man at thirty meters and shooting at man at fifty. I take cover behind a wall.

"Mutt!" Bombstrike shouts.

I wave for her to keep going. Junkyard whines, and I have to shout for him to go. It breaks my heart to watch him limp away. They hesitate for just a second. Then Bombstrike sees someone on a rooftop and starts shooting. They cross the street, shoving their way through motorcycle traffic and fishermen until they vanish somewhere on the other side.

It's just now that I finally have a moment to think. First order of business is to replace my magazine. I look down and realize my slide is already locked to the rear. If a Viper had jumped at me at that exact second, I would have be empty. I drop the mag and leave it. Slap the new one in. Thumb the slide release and let it snap forward. Time to move, old man. I start running away from the fence, hoping to stay out of their sight lines and maybe draw them away from the others.

The alley opens up into another marketplace. People are already starting to scatter. Terrorist attacks in this city are practically an annual event, and nobody is stupid enough to stay put when they hear gunfire. They're all so busy running for their lives that they don't even pay attention to the white man running around with a gun. I duck into a store with cinder block walls and bright neon lights. The place is over-run with all kinds of fishing supplies. Nets, hooks, poles, you name it. It smells like salt and fish. At least it has a couple of spiky things I might be able to use if this fight goes south. There's a terrified old lady taking shelter in the place, until I scream at her to get out. It's for her own good.

Case in point: It's only then, crouching in the bait shop, that I realize there's a helicopter overhead. I didn't hear it a moment ago, and I soon realize why. The Mamba is one of those weird bleeding-edge contraptions Cobra comes up with. It has a bizarre triple-canopy design, like someone welded three attack helicopters together and somehow made it fly. But the weirdest part is the overlapping rotors. They have two side-by-side rotors whose paths intersect. I have no idea how they do it; the timing has to be measured in nanoseconds. But the end result is that it disrupts it's own sound waves. The thing is almost completely silent. Armament is a pair of 30mm chain guns, plus a set of 70mm rockets. If somebody decides to go hot, the building won't offer me any protection at all.

Apparently, even Cobra isn't crazy enough to fire rockets into a civilian market. They send in the goons, instead. The first Viper through the doors is impatient. He doesn't bother to stack up and leads with his weapon. The moment the barrel peeks around the corner, I grab it and pull as hard as I can. The Viper falls forward and stumbles. I body-check him into the wall. Then I drive my heel into his knee until it bends a direction God never intended. The Viper screams while I grab his rifle and turn. His buddy follows him through the door. I spray him with gunfire, probably emptying half the magazine in the process. Hot casings crunch under my boots as I duck beside the window. Gimpy-leg is reaching for his sidearm, so I let him have it, too.

I don't know if they are actually talking to the Mamba, but it doesn't take long for the pilot to realize something is wrong. He opens up with the guns and the wall disintegrates around me. I roll across the floor and hope this place has a rear exit. The best I can do is shoot out at window and jump for it. I fall, roll, and run again; Limping now but still clutching the rifle. The Mamba loses track of me, but I watch it rotate and angle downwards. It is lining up to fire its rockets. They aren't fooling around. One rocket barrage would wipe out not just me but half the block. I'm out of time, and out of options.

Remember what I said earlier about the overlapping rotor blades? It turns out, I don't actually have to destroy the helicopter. I have just to damage it bad enough so that one rotor turns slower than the other. I take aim with the Viper rifle's 20mm grenade launcher, and pray that I know what I'm doing. The grenade launcher lets loose with a 'chunka-chunka-chunka' sound. One of the rounds explodes against the canopy. It barely scratches the paint but the rotors take shrapnel. They immediately split apart and fragment. The Mamba drops like a rock, falling face-first into the pavement.

Not bad, old man. Not bad.

"Hey Mister!" I hear someone shout. I'm amazed I can hear anything at all. Aziz is waiting for me on a motorcycle. The kid is barely big enough to sit on it, but he handles it like a champ. "We gotta go!" He doesn't have to tell me twice. I drop the rifle, hop on the back, and we ride off into the night like a pair of idiot cowboys.

 **9**

We're twenty miles southwest of Narathiwat, puttering down a nameless river towards the Malaysian border. By 'we,' I mean Chuckles, Aziz, Bombstrike, Junkyard, and myself. We're all crammed in one of those little kolae boats the fishermen use to get around. We motor across glassy lakes surrounded by towering jungle trees and steep limestone cliffs. Then we go southwest into the mountains, following a turbid brown-water river that cuts through the heart of the peninsula and flows deep into Malaysia. Look back, towards the rising sun, and you'd think we are floating on a river of gold. It would be truly beautiful, were it not for the swarms of mosquitoes and the drifting pieces of trash.

The Malay Peninsula is not a big place. If you were to start at Narathiwat city and try to fly directly west, it would only be about one hundred miles wide. The peninsula is small but it's also dense. Dense with mountains, rivers, dams, parks, small villages, and dotted throughout with fishing communities. It can be a complex place, especially if you try to follow one of these rivers that splits and branches and doubles back on itself like some kind of insane serpent. I find it truly astonishing that multiple overlapping insurgencies can fester in such a small place.

That, I suppose, is the big lesson when it comes to asymmetric warfare: The territory itself just doesn't matter. It's all about the population. If you take a high estimate of twenty thousand insurgents, living in a Malay population of around eight million, with easy access to neighboring Malaysia and northern Thailand, you are still looking for a needle in a haystack. And this is the new way of war, I suppose. Big tank battles in the open desert are going the way of the dodo.

"Couldn't we just drive?" I ask. "My cell phone says there is a road like five miles from here."

"No," Chuckles says. "First, we would have to pass through five or six checkpoints just to get where we are going... And those checkpoints could be government, Cobra, jihadist, or any combination of the above. But we're also going into the deep mountains. They have roads for cows, but nothing you can drive on."

I sigh and shake my head. At least this little detour gives us time to rest. My old bones are starting to fail me. I think I've got stress fractures forming in my shins. Junkyard has his head on Bombstrike's lap. She rubs his ears. Every now and then he snorts or makes a half-bark sound, as he dreams whatever it is dogs dream about. "Good dog," she whispers, and brushes the hair away from her face. "Good dog."

The Army has dedicated veterinarians, but we are understandably short-handed right now. Any special operations handler in the field has be prepared to take care of his own animal. Right now I'm administering a bag of IV fluid. It's been a few days of abominable heat, and I'm sure Junkyard is close to dehydrated. Turns out, it's actually easier to give subcutaneous fluids to a dog than a human being. On people, they want you to hook it up to a prominent vein in the arm. With a canine, you use the same equipment but you can just stick it anywhere between their shoulder blades it things will work out. I also had to give him stitches. In all the commotion last night, he got a nasty cut on the pad of his paw. I think he will be okay, but he definitely won't be firing on all cylinders anytime soon. But I don't know that I will have the chance to airlift him out of here, either. Worst case scenario, he has to take Motrin, drink water, and drive on.

He saved my life twice last night. Good dog.

Chuckles is uncharacteristically quiet. He sits at the front of the boat and lets Aziz work the rudder. Every few seconds he takes of his sunglasses and rubs them with his shirt. Eventually he accepts the fact that the scratches won't buff out, and he gives up. The silence is nice. As much as I hate to start up another conversation, there's still a lot we need to talk about. I grit my teeth and gather my courage.

"So what's the story on your friend?" I ask. "Harim-whatever. Who is he?"

"Harimau Jadian? He's not a 'he.' That's the name of the rebel group. The Great Ghosts. Their leader – who we actually want to talk to – is named Fasha Tan. Great lady. Thinks she can be a hard case. You'll like her."

"Is she hard to find?"

"Heck, no. That's just marketing. She runs a hideout a mile downriver. Everybody knows about it."

I swat at a mosquito. I've never seen so many bugs, even back in the day when I was chasing Cobra around the Everglades. It makes it hard to concentrate on what he's saying. That's a big problem with Chuckles, because it takes a lot of focus to sort whether he is being serious or sarcastic at any given moment.

"Everybody?" I ask. "As in everybody?"

"Oh, yeah. Cobra, Thai military, Malaysians, North Koreans, you name it. She's technically a Malay ethnic separatist, but she's not wrapped up with the jihadists so people kind of ignore her. Anyway, she thinks I'm a CIA big-shot and I'm going to give her attack helicopters or some other stupid thing. Who knows this these guys? I figured it was better to say I was CIA than admit to being GI Joe."

"Hang on," Bombstrike says. Junkyard's ears perk up. "Your cover story is that you're CIA? Are you insane?"

"Oh, you wish. Here's the thing: That's what these guys want to hear. I mean, think about it. You come in on covered status. Your role is back-stopped and everything. You go through the usual nonsense where you find a source and make small talk, and then you pitch him and hope he doesn't sell you out to the host nation security or the terrorists or whatever. And if it all goes well, he walks in a few times a month to drop off a clue about Jim Bob Abu-Badguy, and God only knows whether anything ever comes of it. That is dumb. It's boring and it takes forever.

"So I have a better plan. I walk in, and I say, 'Hey, I'm with the CIA, and I've got a big huge Agency bank account. Play nice with me and I'll make it rain so hard you'll need to buy an Ark.' They don't want to talk to some dork from the embassy. They want to meet somebody who is fueled by pure awesomeness. Somebody that makes them feel special and important and powerful. And I am that guy. I go in, I make ludicrous promises I never intend to keep, and I always leave them with a smile. It's the American way. Really."

Bombstrike wrinkles her nose and looks away. We keep moving down the river, heading deeper into the hills. The forest seems thicker here. The trees are taller, with branches that reach out over the water as if they are trying to touch the other side. Thick, green vines drape so low we can touch them as we pass. Junkyard sits up. More than once, his ears perk and he seems alert to something in the forest. Whatever it is, I don't see it. But I pull out my handgun just in case.

"Are you okay?" Bombstrike asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "Don't worry about it."

It is another two miles to Wat Phra Gniap. Temple of the Quiet Buddha. The temple is, for all intents an purposes, a castle. Built into the mountainside and overgrown by layers of jungle canopy, I imagine it must be invisible from the air. There is no easy way to tell where the jungle ends and the architecture begins. Huge sections of bas-relief sculpture are covered by vines. In some places the trees have shoved aside masonry. In others, they drape across the stone and curl around it, as if they were made of soft wax. I struggle to imagine the stonework being imported from some distant quarry. Rather, it gives the impression that the temple grew out of the Earth itself. I imagine it rising from the soil, vines trying and failing to hold it back and pull it down.

In truth, the temple was constructed by Hindus in the 13th century. It has since been variously appropriated by Buddhists and Muslims, and the current name is an invention of the Thai government. The closest thing I can compare it to is the Khmer monuments of Cambodia. Every available inch seems covered in sculptures of angels, devas, monsters, and gods whose names I do not know. There is a bridge leading from the water's edge that is flanked on both sides by angry-looking statues. Beyond this, a gated entrance with tall pillars and high arches.

But what I find more surprising is the refugees. They line the shores with their kolae boats and small tents. There must be two hundred people here. Men, women, and children, the elderly and the infirm, even a handful of monks in ocher robes. They stand by the river in rags and tatters, some of them clutching trash bags full of their belongings. We drift past a procession of gaunt faces and sad eyes. I can't say they are surprised to see us, but neither are they frightened. Rather, they seem simply blank and pale; Numbed by pain and despairing of novelty, they stand in silence and wait to learn what new horror the world will inflict on them today. The people watch, without exception, as the prow of our boat slowly turns towards them. Aziz kills the motor just as we near the dock and lets us drift in.

"Bad news, Mister Chuck," Aziz says. Junkyard looks back at him. "Bad news."

Chuckles is the first on land. He jumps off the boat and the crowd parts. The people look at him with a mixture of fear, confusion, and awe. Does he expect them to be impressed by his Top Gun aviators and idiot 'tactical' khakis? I just see hungry people jealous of someone so well-fed.

He has barely walked five paces before the rebels come to to meet us. They are a much rougher crowd. There are five of them with AK's, and another mounting an RPK machine gun on top of the temple. They are all Malay, and they carry large knives and machetes. One is actually wearing a katana. Their camouflage is eclectic; Patchwork, pieced-together, like a quilt made of leftover scraps. One of them puts up a hand and stops Chuckles in his tracks. He mumbles something in Malay. I'm reluctant to even get out of the boat, but I hide my gun in my waistband and follow them anyway.

"What the heck, man?" Chuckles asks. "Are you serious?" The rebel barks some words at him and points back to the river. "No way," Chuckles insists. "Nope."

"Is there a problem?" I ask. I rest my hands on my hips, hoping to fool them into thinking I actually know what I'm doing.

"He says get lost. And a bunch of other stuff I'm not sure about. But that part was clear. And no, we aren't going. Also, he doesn't like dogs."

"Your making that up," I say.

"That last part, yeah," Chuckles replies. "But seriously, they don't like dogs."

The rebel looks like he is about to butt-stroke Chuckles to death, when we hear a woman shout. The entire group turns to look. Meet Fasha Tan, Tiger Queen. She stands atop the staircase, in front of the temple doors and flanked by a great bronze Buddha on either side. I'm struck by her slender frame and sharp, angular features. Striped-pattern camo clings to her smooth amber skin. Her tan vest resembles a Vietnam-era flak jacket. It hangs off her as if she is a child dressing up in her daddy's old kit. A short-barrel AKSU dangles off her shoulder. Literally dozens of charms and amulets decorate her neck and wrists.

Fasha Tan descends with slow, measured steps. The crowd moves as if she were Moses parting the sea. There is no sound. Even the birds know better than to speak. The only thing we hear is the soft tinkle of sacred jewelry, and the snap of a twig breaking beneath her heel. She digs into her pocket and takes her time putting on a pair of finger-less gloves. Then she steps right up to Chuckles and punches him square in the teeth.

"Stupid!" she shouts. Chuckles stumbles backwards, clutching his chin. His first mistake is not falling down. When he looks up, Fasha hits him again with a good left hook. He falls flat on his butt while a pair of rebels proceed to kick him. I'll be the first to admit: They have some nice kicking boots. Fresh soles. All they need is some cleats.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Fasha mutters as they do their work. Nobody laughs. They don't stop until one of them catches him in the face and starts bleeding from a split lip. Fasha holds up a hand, and they desist. "You should not have come here," she says.

Chuckles lays back on the ground, shielding his face his one hand and his gut with the other. Eventually he realizes that they are done with him, and he relaxes a little. Wipes his lip on the back of his hand. Spits a little. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, I kinda got that. Thank you for clarifying."

"Shut up already," Bombstrike says. "What's the problem now?"

"Do you think there are no spies here?" Fasha asks. "Do you think the ghosts are not among us?" She glares at him for a moment, then looks at us. "Who are these? Why have you brought them here?"

"Well," Chuckles begins as he picks himself up and dusts off. "You know Aziz already. And this is my new friend, Bombstrike. And of course, you recognize Burt Reynolds and his Hollywood pal, Rin-Tin-Tin."

I do not look like Burt Reynolds. I look like Tom Selleck.

Fasha is not amused. "I should cut off your heads and make you a gift to Cobra." There is a long and quiet pause. I hope she is not sincerely considering this. Then she says something in Malay, and the rebels ready their weapons. We put up our hands and wait while they strip us of our weapons and – even worse – our Iridium. The biggest rebel, whom I'm going to call Tiny, drops our handguns at her feet. Then he considers the problem of the dog. Junk is snarling with his back up.

"You don't want to do that," I say. "Trust me, you really don't want to do that. Just give him some space and he'll be a good boy. Good boy, Junk. Good boy." The real danger now is that one of them will try to lay his hands on me. Junk will interpret that as a threat, and he will attack immediately. And then they'll shoot him. And then they'll probably shoot us, too. "Stay," I say. "Good boy."

"Is that your dog?" Fasha asks.

I shrug. "He's his own dog. But yeah, he's Army, if that's what you mean."

"He will stay on the boat. With Aziz. You three will come with me."

Tiny motions with his rifle, and we climb the stairs to Wat Phra Gniap.

 **10**

Chuckles just can't keep his mouth shut. "I've got to tell you guys, just so you know... This has never happened before. Really."

"Well," I whisper. "If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it already." I glance back at Tiny and his fat basketball head. He says nothing. I kind of want to see how much he'll let me get away with.

The temple isn't as dark as I expect. In some places the sun shines through the jungle canopy. Where it does not, they have installed work lamps. The lighting connects to a series of car batteries, solar panels, and the occasional gasoline generator. The whole world smells like incense. Inside the temple is only slightly cooler than outside. Like the building's exterior, the entire place is decorated with bas-relief mythological art.

I also spot piles of the usual military kit. Soviet-era small arms. Boxes of ammunition. I see a macaque eating fruit while he squats on a Chinese radio. They have some small televisions and stacks of magazines. Construction materials sit in disorganized piles. There does not seem to be any clear distinction between barracks and work space. Cots are set up wherever there is room. I count at least ten.

We pass an open space where a statue once stood. Now there's just maps and pieces of acetate. They use colored markers and little flags on toothpicks. Just like we did before the Army gave us fancy battle-tracking software. I wrinkle my nose and hope nobody notices. I'm not sneering at their tools. I'm trying to figure out whether they have delusions of grandeur.

"You disapprove?" Fasha asks. I didn't even realize she was watching.

"What exactly are you planning? There can't be more than fifteen or twenty rebels in this whole place. And Malay insurgents have never been able to organize for direct action."

What I leave unsaid is that they don't have the manpower for it. I once read that in a revolutionary situation it only takes about three percent of the population to actively participate in order to effect a change in government. The Malay insurgents have never come close to this.

"...Until the last six months," she adds. "But you're right. We are under-manned. Most of my people have joined the Jihadists, defected to Cobra, or been killed in action."

"And now?"

She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she brings us to a large room. We walk down a short flight of stairs. I feel like I'm living through a Rudyard Kipling novel. The vines spill through open windows and wrap around stone pillars. Water drips from a crack in the ceiling. Buddhist saints stare down on us from every direction. Rainbow-colored birds don't scatter when we approach. A pair of younger women prepares rice and noodles over a portable stove. One of them sees us and reaches for a teapot. She's a pretty thing, with honey-colored eyes that belong on a magazine cover instead of... Well... Whatever this place is. The only imperfection is a pale discoloration on her skin. I guess it might be vitiligo.

"We always thought we wanted the government out of the Malay provinces," Fasha explains. "Until it actually happened. Cobra moved in to the border region and brought the ghosts with them."

"Right," Chuckles says. "Speaking of which, what was your position on the whole thing where you cut off our heads? Because I feel like I could use some closure on that discussion."

"We're going to eat. And then we can talk about your usefulness."

A pink towel is spread on the floor. Tiny points. We sit cross-legged, which I hate because it makes my legs fall asleep. Fasha folds her feet to the side, which is the Malay custom. It looks uncomfortable. The food bland and tasteless, even after they mix in some of those little flavor packets that come with the freeze-dried noodles. The girls give us a bowl for washing our fingers. We are only halfway through the meal when Fasha finishes her plate and starts talking again.

"You've already noticed our problem. The people have come out of the hills and they are looking for help. They don't want to be homeless in the cities. But if we can't provide for them, that's what will happen. And the longer this goes on, the worse it will get."

"I'm sorry," Bombstrike says. "We don't even really understand what is happening here."

Fasha rolls her eyes. "First there was Cobra. They moved in and attacked both sides of the border. Thai and Malaysian. We don't even really know where they came from, but they drove out the government. Military and police included. At first we thought this was a stroke of good luck, but the jihadists took advantage of it and tried to impose their ideas on the people. That's when the ghosts appeared. They killed the jihadists and drove the people out of their homes. It started in the mountain villages in Malaysia... But they have been spreading. We will have to confront them soon."

"And the government?"

The tiniest wince crosses Fasha's face.

"Useless," she says. "Scared. Incompetent."

I'm not sure whether I believe her. But it is true that I haven't seen any police or soldiers since we landed.

"Scared of the ghosts?" I ask.

"Yes. Four months ago they began landing soldiers in the mountains to locate and destroy Cobra forces. Most of them didn't come back. The refugees say they have seen evil spirits in the mountains. They call them ghosts." She pauses to brush the hair out of her eyes. Now I realize why her arms are dripping with charms.

"So," Chuckles says. "Cobra's plan is to scare the villagers away? Where have I heard that before?"

Fasha swears at him in Malay. "You are so stupid. Do you think that's the end of it?"

"No," I say. "We know they're up to something. And they need to kidnap certain scientists to make it work."

Bombstrike thinks about this. "Doctor Burke was a marine biologist, right? And the border region contains some very large reservoirs. Does that make any sense?"

"I don't know who that is," Fasha says. "Or what you're on about. Regardless, we can't operate in those regions. At least, we're not yet ready to try. The refugees report seeing Cobra in the mountains. But this is not the real problem." We all glance at each other. Anyone could all guess what is coming next, but none of us actually want to say it.

"You have compromised us by coming here," she continues. "Cobra has been content to ignore us thus far. Once they know that you are in this place... I think they will act. Which means we have a choice to make." She picks up a cup of tea and cradles it in her palm as she sips. "I have to decide just how much you are worth to me." I don't like the sound of that. "If I cut off your heads and give them Cobra, I might buy us some time. Perhaps even respect. I could even put it on YouTube. Maybe then the jihadists would leave us alone."

"Or?" Chuckles asks. He slurps his tea. "I mean, I'm really hoping there's an 'Or.'"

"Or you could offer me something else of value. I have many mouths to feed. Medicine would be useful. But we will also have to fight. Sooner rather than later, now that you are here."

Ah. There it is.

"And what did you have in mind?" I ask.

Fasha Tan shoots me a wry smile. "MANPADS."

Chuckles spits his tea. Bombstrike coughs, a little. Even I have to stop myself from laughing out loud. The rebels are not amused. To put it mildly.

I should explain.

This is the acronym for man-portable air defense system. Examples that come to mind include the SA-7 Grail and the Stinger missile. These are surface-to-air weapons designed to give an individual soldier the ability to shoot down aircraft, without the hassle of a setting up a fixed SAM site. These weapons are big-ticket items for insurgents and terrorists all over the world. Rebel types want them so that they can defend against first-world air power. Terrorists want them so that they can threaten passenger jets. And even if they never get used, MANPADS represent something that everyone wants - namely, street cred. Look at it this way: It is not that difficult to buy or copy an unguided rocket, like an RPG. But MANPADS are complex and dangerous. They send the message that the group has dangerous friends and is influential enough to be courted by world powers. Handing over a half-dozen missiles would turn this gang of wannabes into serious revolutionaries overnight.

"That's not going to happen," I say.

Fasha Tan waits for a servant to refill her tea. Then she just stares at me. "This is very funny," she says. "Are these weapons worth more than your lives?"

"Um, duh," Chuckles says.

"Look," I try to explain. "As much as I hate to say this... He's right. We're expendable. Our government won't even admit we're here, and they definitely won't trade anything for ransom. We gave Stingers to the Afghans in the 80's and it really didn't end well. After 9/11, we spent huge sums of time and money just trying to get the stupid things back. And right now, nobody is in a hurry to arm another insurgent group, regardless of whose side you're on."

"Because we're Muslim?" she asks.

I set her up for that one. Oh well.

"Yes," I say. "That is a part of it. This is the world we live in. But aside from that, you might be against Cobra but you're also against the Thai. And they are our allies. If an American weapon gets used against a Thai national – even if it's not your group that does it – the consequences would be huge. And I mean huge. No one is going to take that risk, no matter what it means for us."

"Hmmm... That is troublesome." She takes another sip of tea. "So what else could you offer us?"

Then it hits me. Fasha never wanted the missiles. Or at least, she knew we would never give them. This entire conversation has been a red herring. All she wanted was to set the starting point for negotiation, so that she could talk us down to something more reasonable.

"What did you have in mind?"

She shrugs with passive-aggressive innocence. "If I'm going to take care of these people, I suppose I will need food and medicine. We have so little to offer them. Your government is incapable of comprehending the difference between a Malay warrior and a jihadist terrorist. We've all been painted with the same brush, and now our guests are the ones who have to pay the price."

"Stop," I say. "You're just being asinine. I'm not here to solve your problems." That gets their attention. Even if they don't speak English, they know I'm being disagreeable. And I'm not sure I care. "I'm not going to pity you, and I cannot change national policy."

"Then should I be asking for help from Cobra?"

I shake my head in amazement. "Seriously? This again? When I was a kid, people pulled that crap all the time. 'Give us what we want or we'll ask our new friends, the Soviets.' That's stupid and I'm not falling for it." Bombstrike looks as if she's sitting on a snake. Chuckles looks like he might be ill. I don't care. "You want to negotiate?" I ask. "I've done this dance with Northern Alliance commanders that make your gang here look like Girls Scouts. They didn't scare me and neither do you. If you want to fight Cobra, I'll help. If not, you're wasting our time."

I don't know what she was expecting, but I've clearly caught her off guard. Fasha sips at her tea, but I know she is stalling while she tries to recover.

"Alright," she finally says. "We need food and medicine. And we want to fight Cobra. I'm willing to trade. But we can't fight without weapons. We don't have enough weapons or ammo."

Now Chuckles decides to speak up. "The first two we can do," he says. I very nearly punch him in the face, expecting that he is about to roll over just to appease these losers. "No, hang on, I'm serious. America loves giving that stuff away. It helps people and it makes us look good. But there's no way we can give you weapons. You said it yourself... You guys are like, radioactive. Instead, we will fight with you. That's what we do. And when Cobra is gone, we make sure the Thai government knows you are heroes. They'll throw you a freaking parade if we sell it to them right. And that's what you want, isn't it? Legitimacy? Recognition? A place at the table? You could be a – well – I don't know if Thailand has a pope or a king or what, but you wouldn't be living in this dump anymore. The point is, you'd have influence. And that's the whole point of this, right?"

Remarkably, that actually makes sense. Even more remarkable: It looks like they bought it. Fasha Tan taps her fingers on the side of her cup. I see her glance at Tiny. It's the smallest thing; The most momentary crack in her demeanor. If I had blinked, I would have missed it. I wonder what she is looking for. Approval? Permission?

"Alright," she finally says. "You have a deal. Deliver us the supplies for the refugees, and we can talk about taking the fight to Cobra."


	3. Chapter 3

**11**

The sun does not rise at Wat Phra Gniap. We sit in the shadowed draw between two mountains. When morning comes the mist comes with it, painting the world in shades of gray. Black trees reach towards the sky like twisted, arthritic hands. Venous creepers circle the tree-trunks as if they mean to drag them down. The Muslim Malays gather on the riverside for prayer beneath the fig trees. They recite their creeds in Arabic and touch their foreheads to the damp earth. Somewhere in the mist a rooster crows. It is surprisingly cold this morning, except for old Junk's head resting on my leg. He takes a deep and ragged breath, and sighs. I know how he feels.

I think about the war. I think about Fasha Tan. I think about Tiny, who is standing behind my left shoulder with his AK. I don't think about going home. Home is an abstract concept to someone like me. That's one thing Carol could never understand about the Army. She always thought "home" meant Virginia. I thought "home" was whatever horrible place the Army sent me that month. We never managed to meet in the middle. Oh well.

Junk glances at me. I scratch his head behind his ear, and his leg twitches a little. That's how I know I've found the good spot. My sweet baby dog. Here's your Meditation for the Day: A dog is a wolf that never grows up. And yet we fill his mouth with titanium knives and try to undo thousands of years of selective breeding, essentially trying to turn the dog back into a wolf. Or, at least, our idealized version of the wolf we find most useful.

I touch his injured paw, and he pulls it away. I persist. Once Junkyard understands I'm not going to give up and I'm not going to hurt him, he relents. The cut on his paw looks unpleasant, but not infected. Not that it makes much difference. Either way, I won't be bringing him on mission anytime soon. I go back to scratching his head, until my moment of Zen is rudely interrupted.

"Hey," Chuckles says. "Did you know this place has a koi pond? It's in the back. They put in a skylight and everything. But I'm not sure whether it counts as a 'koi pond,' or if it's just a hole with fish in it."

I let my head tilt back against a pillar and sigh. "Those aren't koi. They're called arowana."

"Ah. Got it. Right." He looks down from our perch and watches the people gathered at the riverside. If he is trying to be cool, he is failing. I watch his eyes dance back and forth, jumping from place to place. Junk picks up on it too. The dog sits up and leans forward, keying on his anticipation.

"So," Chuckles continues. "Um. How did you sleep?"

"With one eye open." And no gun. Can't forget that part.

Chuckles rests his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "Well, it's okay. You've got this guy." He points towards my Malay guard. It's still not clear whether he is there to protect me, or restrain me, or both.

"Yeah," I say, glancing over my shoulder. "I'm calling him 'Tiny.' What's his story, anyway?"

"That's funny," Chuckles says. "I've been calling him 'Viet Charlie Brown.' But yours is better."

"Doesn't talk much."

"Nah. He's a boat gypsy. And on the totem pole of Thailand that makes him, like, not even a real person. I mean, seriously. He's lucky they let him eat people food."

"You keep saying things like that. Aziz. Fasha Tan. Tiny. They all have something in common."

For a long moment, Chuckles doesn't say anything at all. First he takes out his aviators and pretends to clean them. Then he puts them on, even though it is still misty and overcast. "Yeah, that's kind of the theme around here, isn't it?"

He looks at his wrist, and only then realizes he is not wearing a watch.

"Are these guys coming or not?" he asks no one in particular. Then he walks away.

We sit in silence for a long moment. Junkyard whines. I look over my shoulder. My guard is staring at me, shaking his head.

"Don't look at me, man," Tiny says. "I think he's a prick." Then he walks away, too.

Huh. How about that.

It's long after morning prayers when the Joes arrive. They can't bring in the Tomahawk. For starters, the jungle surrounding Wat Phra Gniap is too dense. Doctrine prescribes a landing zone eighty yards from an obstacles. Of course, Wild Bill and Lift-Ticket are both alumni of the 160th SOAR, so they are used to operating in rather less forgiving conditions. The real problem is that this airspace is more contested than we originally thought. A Mamba is capable of air-to-air combat. The Tomahawk is not.

Instead, we get Shipwreck and Torpedo. They come into Wat Phra Gniap on a Thai long-tail. The boat is thirty meters long, which is almost too large to navigate the tight turns of the river. The hull is entirely wood and, like all long-tails, it uses a second-hand automotive engine for power. The illusion is convincing in that it really does look like it might fall apart at any moment. But this is GI Joe we're talking about. It probably has hidden rocket launchers and frogmen hanging off the sides or some other crazy thing.

"What's up?" Shipwreck asks. His voice sounds like Jack Nicholson doing a John Wayne impression. I don't know why, but it just grinds on me.

"Did Stalker give you a hard time?" I ask.

"No. Food and medicine is an easy sell. Stinger missiles... We'd have to get back to you on that."

I climb into the boat and examine the cargo. They've got it covered in a plastic tarp. Underneath, one gross case of MRE's. They've even got a couple of those brown-packaged cakes thrown in for good measure. My blood pressure spikes.

"Are you kidding me?" I shout.

"What?" Torpedo asks. "Did we forget the dog food?"

"No, jackass. First, you brought MREs into a rebel village. Anyone comes through here – Cobra, Jihadist or Thai, it doesn't matter – They're going to see this. If there's even one scrap of trash left over, they'll know these people got a visit from America. And second-" I flip the box in my hands, examining the label. "You brought the wrong ones."

"What do you mean? It's all food."

"The refugees are Muslim," I explain. "And this isn't halal. They won't eat this."

"Who cares?" Torpedo asks. "It's food. They can suck it up."

This is the kind of ignorant nonsense you hear from people who aren't accustomed to dealing with foreign cultures. I rub my eyes and try to explain. "Yes, it's food. But it's the wrong food. We need their help to find Cobra. Actually, no. Right now, we just need them to not kill us. Then we can work on Cobra. But either way, in order to get there we have to craft the illusion that we actually care about them and their problems. And we can't do that if you bring them food we all know they can't eat."

All Shipwreck can do is shrug. "Look, man. We're GI Joe, not UNICEF. We brought what we had."

"Fine," I say. "We'll work with it. Just pull out the vegetarian ones. We'll hand out those first. You can start cutting them open and pulling out anything pork." This is not, in any way, the actual definition of 'Halal,' but it is a start and it'll have to do. "Please tell me you brought the medicine."

"That we got," Shipwreck says. I follow him to the back of the boat, ducking under jangling charms and wind chimes. There are a set of cooler chests in the rear. Inside, I find all the usual emergency medicine: Antibiotics, IV fluids, insulin and glucose, epinephrine. Assorted needles and other sterile gear. Good enough. And, buried in the bottom of the boat, I find our kit: SCARs, plate carriers, NODs, MBITRs, and Junkyard's vest. Even smoke grenades in red and purple flavors. It's enough kit to equip our team.

"We've also brought our own gear," Torpedo explains.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "We need you to go a few miles upriver and find a bed-down site. If things go south, we'll be counting on you to exfiltrate. Send me a message on the Iridium once you find a place."

Shipwreck and Torpedo look at each other. I already know what they're going to say. There's no way they can just hide a thirty-meter boat for forty-eight hours. The best option may be to take it out to sea, but that would mean going all the way back to Narathiwat, which defeats the purpose. But, to their credit, they're Joes. They don't give up so easy.

"Sure, man," Shipwreck says. "We'll figure it out. Just be safe out there."

We drag the supplies onto the shore and let the refugees sort it out for themselves. I figure about half of them actually care about the content of the meals. They're all grateful, regardless. My personal favorite is a big pouch of sloppy joe filling. It takes about five minutes for the ration heater to warm it up. I sit next to Junk, on top of our kit crate. We watch Shipwreck and Torpedo push off. They putter off into the mist, and I notice for the first time that the sun is starting to peek over the mountaintops.

"So I guess we're really doing this?" Bombstrike asks.

For Pete's sake... Can't a guy take a knee for five whole minutes? She's standing there with her hands on her hips, staring at the box of military gear. I don't know how long she's been up, but I can tell she didn't sleep well and she probably hasn't eaten.

"Yeah," I say. "It's kind of late for objections. If you aren't on board with this, you should have gotten on the boat."

"Don't be snide. That's Chuckles' job."

"Alright," I say, cracking open the crate and looking for my kit. "What's the problem?"

"Just that we know nothing about Fasha Tan. Or any of these Harimau-whatever people. They could just be a bunch of terrorists for all we know. I don't mind giving out food and medicine... But we're about to head off into the mountains with them. And we're making promises that we might regret."

"Well, I think Chuckles had it right."

She crosses her arms and glares. "What do you mean?"

"This is what Special Forces does. It's kind of our thing. Look, I get that GI Joe mostly does direct action. But that's not what Special Forces were really intended to do. The entire point of Army SF was to train indigs for unconventional warfare. That's our bread and butter. Over time we've been evolving away from that to focus more on direct action... Which was never the intent. And post-9/11, we've got units like GI Joe that are entirely focused on DA counter-terrorism to the exclusion of all else."

"I'm not seeing the problem," she says.

"The problem is that we can play Cobra whack-a-mole like we've been doing for twenty years, or we can train these guys to do it themselves. What you've got here is an insurgency. Whatever people want to call it, this whole place has been going through a string of insurgencies from ethnic rebels, to jihadists, and now Cobra. Now we could come in here and fight there battles for them... Or we can help them fight their own battles and secure their own territory. If we can get the Malay to fight Cobra, they'll do it faster and better than we ever could."

Bombstrike shakes her head and paces the floor. I try to have patience, because I know this is new territory as far as she is concerned. Bombstrike is (A) young and (B) Air Force. As a JTAC, most of her wartime experience consists of directing close air support onto targets. Ambiguity and moral compromises are not part of her curriculum.

For a moment she doesn't speak. She just stands at the window and watches a peacock half-hidden in the mist. "And then what?" she finally asks. "When this is over, does she just go back to fighting the Thai government? They're supposed to be our allies. I don't think she's just going to give up. What happens if she turns into a monster and we have to come back next year and fight her, too?"

All I can do is shrug. "Maybe a year from now she'll be running this place, and everything will be sunshine and rainbows. Or, maybe she'll turn out to be the next Bin Laden. I don't know. People are going to make their own choices, and we can't control the future. All we can do is play the hand we've been dealt. Right now, Fasha Tan is against Cobra. That puts her on the same side as us... And the Thai government, for whatever that's worth. We can keep going and finish this, or we can give up and go home. I think we can give her a shot."

Bombstrike chews her lip when she's anxious.

"Fine," she says. "You're the boss."

She turns to walk away, but I can't help myself. "A piece of advice?" I say.

"What?"

"Don't get wound too tight. You'll crack in the end. I've seen it happen."

"Now you sound like Chuckles," she sighs.

"Yeah," I say. "Exactly."

 **12**

Wat Phra Gniap. 1730 hours. It's a Monday, if anyone was wondering.

We're standing around the 'horse blanket.' Translation: A giant sheet of paper that includes the map, scheme of maneuver, and assessment of enemy positions all on one giant graphic. Joes normally use computer imagery and CPOF automation for this kind of thing. The Harimau Jadian don't have those luxuries. Come to think of it, they don't even acetate. What we're left with is a folding map of the Malaysian border and a fistful of magic markers.

Our team consists of three: Myself, Bombstrike and Chuckles. Aziz sits with Junkyard in the back of the room. He won't be coming. On the other side of the table we have Fasha Tan and Tiny. Behind them, eight more Harimau Jadian rebels with their eclectic mix of weapons and equipment. That makes thirteen pax, total. More than I would like, to be honest. That's twice what we need for a recon mission. It's more than a single person can supervise and I'm not okay with that.

"So what are we looking at?" I ask.

Fasha Tan makes a bright red mark across the paper. "Everything south of this line is Cobra territory. They have driven out the Thai and Malaysian governments. We assume they have either eliminated or driven out any jihadist rebel cells, along with most of the civilian populace." The line runs south and west of Wat Phra Gniap. It leaves us about ten miles before we cross the border and enter the reservoir region.

The Tasik Durbaraja is a man-made lake in northern Malaysia. It is also our target. Like the Tasik Kenyir and Tasik Temenggor, it is the product of damming a river to create a miles-long reservoir. A submerged mountaintop peeks over the surface of the lake, essentially transforming itself into a large island. The geography is chaotic and formidable. The mountains are steep and covered in dense jungle. The roads are concentrated on the far end, around the dam. Without boats or helicopters, the island will be unreachable. I'm starting to regret sending Torpedo and Shipwreck to the rear.

"But," Fasha continues. "We all know Cobra can and will operate wherever they please. We've heard reports of them launching attacks as far north as Pattani. There's no clear distinction as to where their AO begins and ends."

"So this is what I don't understand," Bombstrike interrupts. She runs her fingers through her hair and pushes it away from her face. This place is so humid the loose strands cling to her skin. "You keep saying Cobra controls this territory. Why? What are they getting out of it? This is the exact opposite of how insurgencies are supposed to work. They blend in the with the population specifically so they don't get targeted, right?"

"No," Chuckles says. "They blend in with civilians because they want to bait us into attacking them. And when we do, they cry and whine and put videos on the internet, to make it look like we're the bad guys."

"But more importantly," I explain, "Cobra wants legitimacy. It's the end game of every insurgency, really. The goal isn't just to rebel. It's to take power, seize territory, and transform yourself into a legitimate state. Nobody wants to fight asymmetric warfare. It's long, hard, and painful. Every insurgency wants to make the jump to symmetric, conventional warfare as soon as possible. And Cobra just happens to have the resources to skip straight to the endgame, which is statehood. It's almost an obsession with them."

"Alright," Bombstrike says. "I can buy that. So what do we do about it?"

"Without information? Nothing." Fasha goes to work with another marker. She makes a half-dozen small circles on the map. "These are the towns our refugees have come from. They're on both sides of the border. And here-" Now she draws some arrows. "-Are the routes the Thai army used when they attempted to infiltrate Cobra territory. My guess is that exploring the villages along these routes will give us the best chance of enemy contact. That's why we will avoid them."

This is admittedly counter-intuitive. If the goal is to destroy the enemy, then logically we should proceed to wherever the enemy is located. But our goal is not to fight. Rather, we intend to reconnoiter and look for clues. The places Fasha has marked on the map are the places we already suspect the enemy is. Confirming the location of enemy defenses would be (at best) redundant and (at worst) suicide. Instead, we plan to find our way around the enemy's patrols to identify their base camp. Seeking an engagement that doesn't offer the chance to destroy our enemy is just asking for a protracted game of whack-a-mole. In a contest of attrition, Fasha Tan will break long before Cobra. For the second time, she surprises me with her shrewdness.

"Alright," I say. "Now we have to narrow it down. What does Cobra need for infrastructure? Buildings? Electricity? Flight lines?"

"That's trickier," Fasha explains. "But we've identified a few locations. First off, the dam itself. They could hold thousands of people hostage by threatening to destroy it and flood the valley. If I wanted to discourage an attack, that's where I would be. But there's also a military airfield with a hospital to the east, and some sort of tourist resort on the ridge line to the west."

All three of these locations are likely to be self-contained cities, with everything a global terrorist organization might need. When Fasha marks them on the map there is no question. The majority of the abandoned villages and aborted infiltration routes fall on the east side of the reservoir. We will head to the north end, and then sweep west.

"We will move across the border after sundown. Follow the roads southwest, but avoid actually using or crossing them. Once we are in the reservoir area, we can set up observation posts in the hills. We should be able to determine whether the dam or the resort is occupied. Do you have anything to add?"

"No," I say. "That sounds good." In truth, there are other ways we could confirm enemy activity. Satellite photography and radio traffic analysis are the first to come to mind. But I doubt anyone is going to drop a Prophet signal locator on us. Getting those kinds of national assets queued up takes time, and nobody in their right mind would make the resulting products releasable to a gang of Malay insurgents.

"Are we engaging targets of opportunity?" Bombstrike asks.

"Of course," Fasha says.

"That's not what we discussed," I say. "Any target small enough for us to attack is going to be too small to be worth it. And any attack we make, even if we succeed, will just attract Cobra's attention."

"No," Fasha insists, slapping her hand on the table. "No, you did that. You came to us, you asked for our help, and you forced us to move up our timetable. Cobra could be on their way here right now, and you'd never even know it. Don't try to put this on me. If we have the chance to fight – and the terms are favorable – we will take it."

Everyone is staring at me. One of the Malay rebels rests his hand on his katana. Another is pretending to clean his gun. They are not pleased. Junkyard looks from me, to Fasha, and back to me. He knows Dad is in trouble. If I so much as raise my hand, he will try to kill her. This isn't just a matter of disagreement. It's become a matter of face. Hot, prickly sweat breaks out on my forehead. I have to back down before they notice.

"Fine," I say. "We'll do it your way. You nominate a target if you see it. But I get to veto if I think it's more than we can handle."

"Deal," she says. "Now we can get ready."

The rebels disperse. Each man gathers his kit and begins his pre-combat checks. I pretend to study the map... As if I didn't get beat by a girl who must be a hundred pounds soaking wet. But that's not what I'm worried about, either. I'm worried that so much of this is out of my control. I came up in the SF world. The old-school kind. My job is to win their trust and their respect, so that I can keep them focused on fighting America's enemies. Sometimes that takes compromise. But this isn't compromise. It's desperation.

We gear up. Today I'm carrying my SCAR-L. It makes me happy. Not just because it's a good gun, but because of the message it sends. If the brass wanted to keep this hushed up, they would have sent us a box of Romanian AK's and some of that crappy, steel-case lacquered ammo; That is to say, weapons that can't be attributed to the United States. But they've sent us some real top-shelf stuff. It means they don't care whether we get compromised, which means both the Thai and Malaysian governments have signed off on this little adventure. It's practically a license to kill.

In addition to this, I'm wearing my woodland uniform with one of those 'combat shirts.' The sleeves are flame-retardant camouflage, but the chest is made of some kind of moisture-wicking sports fabric. The shirt was intended to be worn under body armor in hot climates. The armor itself is a plate carrier. This is a pared-down version of the outer tactical vest. It dispenses with most of the soft Kevlar inserts in order to reduce weight, but retains the thick ceramic plates that are necessary to protect against rifle-caliber ammunition. Add to this my bite-proof wrist armor and I think I'm set. Bombstrike and Chuckles each get their own set. Chuckles insists on wearing a green Hawaiian shirt, and even I have to admit it halfway works as camouflage.

Speaking of which, it's time to doll up our faces. We each apply jungle make-up to our faces. There's not much of a science to it. The goal is to break up the recognizable shape of a face by putting light colors in the shadowed areas and dark colors on the parts that get the most sun, like the cheeks and the brow. The rebels have a bit more fun with it. Tiny gives himself a sort of war-paint death's head. Fasha Tan paints her face with vertical stripes. She also uses pieces of duct tape to silence her charms and amulets.

Their weapons are just what you'd expect. Kalashnikov rifles. Some nice. Some garbage. Tiny shows up with a PKM squad automatic, and one of the guys in back carries an RPG-7. The dork with the sword insists he wants to bring it along. Normally I'd object that this kind of thing is dead weight. But back home we have three ninjas in our chow hall, so hey... Whatever floats his boat.

Junkyard realizes something is wrong. I'm wearing my kit, so he knows what must come next. He comes to me with his vest in his teeth and whines. 'Come on, Dad. Let's do this.' I almost want to take him. But he still doesn't put weight on the injured paw.

"Not this time, boy. Not today." I scratch his head, and he whines some more. He won't understand. This dog could get run over by a train and he'd still coming begging for me to bring him along. He's a Joe. He doesn't quit.

"Aziz," I call. Junior Boondocks reports at the double. I crouch down to talk to him, and I just now realize that I don't know where his parakeet went. "Did you lose your bird?" I ask.

"He ran away in Phra Chao Sua Ban. Just before Cobra shot up the place. Doesn't matter. Just a bird."

"Okay," I say. "Well, Junkyard here isn't just a bird. He's a soldier. And he's very important to me."

Aziz wrinkles his nose. "He's a big softie."

"Either way, he won't understand that I'm leaving. I need you to take care of him, alright? Just tell him to 'come,' and 'sit.' That last one's important. If he bites someone, that's how you make him let go. He'll take care of you while we're gone."

"Okay," Aziz says. "You be safe. Mister Chuck will take care of you. He's -"

"World's greatest secret agent, right?"

"Heck, no. He pays me to say that. Mister Chuck's _farang kee nok_. But he will take care of you. He does that."

"Got it," I say. "No problem."

We're about to move out. The refugees are having some kind of party on the beach. Fasha Tan decided to leave behind three rebels to guard the place. They are giving them sweets and liquor, and what sounds like pop hits of the 90's. Not all of them go for it, but at least it is a distraction. Our plan is to exfiltrate through the back, and hope they don't realize we're gone until the morning. I stand on the same balcony I occupied this morning, watching the sun set over the mountaintops. The temple is already cast in deep shadows. The refugees have started a bonfire. I'm starting to feel like some kind of modern-day T.E. Lawrence.

"You ready, man?" Chuckles asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Left Junk with the kid."

"Cool. So then what are you worried about?"

I don't answer at first. I just stand there with my weapon. The ammo pouches on my plate carrier give me this nice little shelf I can rest my hands on. Eventually I decide to just be honest. "I don't like the plan. A recon I can deal with. An attack? Not with these guys. Fasha Tan is impatient. She's going to get us killed."

Chuckles laughs out loud. "You don't get it, do you?"

"I don't get what?" I refuse to look at him.

"Fasha Tan. She's not really in charge, here."

Now I glance back over my shoulder. "What are you talking about? If she's not in charge, who is?"

"They are. You know, them. The wannabe Viet Cong. These guys don't get Tricare. They don't get leave days, or life insurance, or discounts at the Commissary. They're all about credibility. You said it yourself." He scratches the back of his neck and straightens his shirt. "Look, man. All I'm saying: She only gets to the be Queen as long as she acts like one. These people aren't dogs. They're wolves. And they want to hunt. Trust me."

Chuckles walks away. I know he's right. I just don't want to admit it.

 **13**

We move at dusk. The sky is a rich shade of violet. The sun is a sliver of fire on the horizon. The team heads out the rear of the temple, climbing up a spiral staircase carved into the living rock. We emerge perhaps thirty meters above and behind the main temple entrance. The woods are dense enough – and the party is loud enough – to cover our exit. Fasha Tan deploys us in a classically Soviet pattern: Three men in the front move out in wedge formation. They are backed up by Tiny with his PKM. Next comes a file that includes Fasha Tan and the three of us Joes. The trail party is another inverted wedge. The battle drills are simple. If the three lead rebels take contact, they fall prone and engage the enemy while the rest of us decide whether we should shift left, right, or to the rear.

These guys might not be ninjas, and they may not even be VC, but I'll give them this much: The noise and light discipline is tight. These are people who know the terrain forwards and back, and have lived in this jungle their whole lives. Americans shift their soldiers from place to place so often they never become masters of any single form of warfare. But then again, very few nations outside America have the force projection power necessary to go anywhere to begin with. It's the great advantage the indigs will always have over us, and it's the mission of Special Forces soldiers to leverage that to the greatest extent possible.

We march through narrow forest paths, keeping under canopy. We are about a mile downriver, when we find it makes a hairpin turn. This is the safest point to cross. Fasha's men have pre-positioned a kolae boat in the reeds, and it only takes us two trips to ferry across. As we ascend the opposite mountain, I stop and look back at Wat Phra Gniap. It's not the bonfire that catches my eye. Its the bats. They come from the hills farther south, rising up in a great column like a pillar of black smoke. The bats swarm in the thousands – the tens of thousands even. Numberless squadrons escape from dark corners of the Earth and circle maniacally up into the sky. I have never seen so many of one animal, in one place, at one time.

And it's just then that I look for Junk, and realize I am alone. Surrounded by people, but still alone. Even as my eyes adjust to the darkness I can't help but feel blind and deaf. I have forgotten what it's like to get along without my boy. Military writers will claim that the jungle is neutral. I always assumed that meant it benefits both attacker and defender in equal measure. But right now I don't know about that. I feel utterly vulnerable, as if a hundred snipers are watching me from every direction and there is no place to hide. Now I understand how easy it must be to believe in ghosts out here.

Going uphill is difficult. The jungle makes it hard to walk even on level ground. We have to move in a zig-zag pattern, ascending slowly so as to avoid tiring our muscles. This is what is so frustrating about fighting in mountainous terrain. It multiplies the difficulty and the time it takes to get anywhere. I can easily march a mile in fifteen minutes in full battle rattle. In the mountains, that might take us an hour. Or worse, we could come to a wall or a vertical drop that we aren't prepared to cross. A mountaintop a mile away could be on another planet, as far as we are concerned.

We pass through a forest of stone. Karst pillars rise from the jungle canopy in defiance of the creeper vines. Limestone cracks beneath my boots. Treading this kind of terrain is like walking on knives. It bites deep into your soles and shreds your heels. We jump over deep cracks in the stone that descend into darkness. I can only guess how many untold miles of caverns there must be beneath these mountains.

It's only when we descend into the forest that we encounter our first snake. And I mean that literally. The point man raises a fist, and we drop to the prone. I don't know what he heard. A full minute passes, and he gives the signal to rise. Chuckles is reluctant to move. I look down, and see the twisting wave-motion of a snake in the grass. It's everything I can do not to jump. Even in the moonlight, I can tell I am looking at a red-headed krait. This is bad news. Not only are they extremely venomous, but they only have two settings: apathetic and beserk. The fact that it hasn't already bitten Chuckles tells me we've probably gotten lucky. He tries scooting backwards on his palms and toes. Doesn't work. The snake is agitated now. It starts to thrash its tail and prepares to bite. At that exact moment, Sword Guy cuts its head off. I'm glad I didn't give him a hard time about carrying that thing.

We proceed in short intervals. Perhaps an hour at a time. For every hour of travel, we take a fifteen minute rest. I chew candy to keep my energy up. One more thing I will say about the rebels: They are tireless. I have to keep reminding myself that most of them grew up in these regions and probably walked this terrain every day. They aren't old men from Jersey. Whenever we stop, I check on Bombstrike and Chuckles. They're bother younger than me, and doing better. I'm just too old for this crap.

Sometime around 0200 hours we reach the saddle point between two hilltops. Fasha orders the group to make camp. This is a hasty set-up. Each man faces outwards so that we have weapons pointing in every direction. They move a few meters into the jungle so that they can identify any obstacles that might create 'dead space.' That is, areas that cannot be hit by a direct-fire weapon. The dead space creates cover that an enemy might take advantage of. The usual remedy is to angle another shooter's sector so that they can cover the dead space. Failing that, you identify it for indirect weapons like grenades. Once this is done, each man takes up his firing position and we all take turns napping until sunrise. I can't sleep, even when my turn comes around. The jungle is too hot, too wet, and too loud. These are the kinds of excuses I make for myself. The truth is that I can't sleep without my dog.

We wake just after 0500, and examine the area. We are now somewhere on the northwest side of the reservoir. A giant, misty lake stretches out in front of us. On the western ridge, we see a group of darkened buildings that must be the tourist resort. I ignore it and focus my attention on the dam to the south. Lots of lights, but no movement. Last of all, we have the central island. The place has what looks like an artificial shelf, with a handful of huts I suspect are also for tourists. There is also some kind of construction going on. Fasha doesn't look pleased. She hands me the binoculars.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "That's bad news."

The Cobra Terror Drome is a self-contained fire-base and anti-aircraft site. The smallest version is maybe fifty meters in diameter. Each wall segment is assembled out of prefabricated sections, and could theoretically be extended to an indefinite size. Most models include a TOC, living space, mortars, and some larger direct-fire guns. They also invariably include a Firebat. The Firebat is a tiny single-engine jet aircraft that has more in common with a munition than an airplane. Although it only carries enough fuel for about ten minutes of flight, it can launch vertically from inside the Terror Drome perimeter. This can be a nasty surprise if the enemy aircraft aren't prepared for it. The good news is that this particular model is not yet completed. The outer ring is perhaps half-finished. It is rare to find an unfinished Terror Drome, because they are designed to be assembled very quickly. I suspect this one is incomplete because they have to ferry building materials over some very difficult terrain and then move it onto the island.

I also spot some other nasty surprises. A large radar antenna sits on the island's central mountaintop. Both the island and the dam are patrolled by HISS tanks and Cobra Stingers. To be honest, it's the latter of the two that concerns me more. The Stinger is a four-wheel truck that, as the name implies, carries a set of surface-to-air missiles. Sometime in the 80's, Cobra copied the design for the FIM-92 Stinger and bundled them together on a turret. Go ahead. Ask me again why we don't want to give MANPADS to insurgents.

"Is that what I think it is?" Bombstrike asks.

"Sure is," I say.

"Colonel Mewett mentioned the passenger jet was intercepted by Cobra aircraft. Do you think it was a Firebat?"

"With their range? Probably not. I'm guessing Cobra has some other aircraft in theater that we haven't seen yet. And don't forget about the Mamba. If they have one, there are probably others. Maybe at the airfield to the east."

"Hey guys," Chuckles calls. "Look what Tiny found."

The local giant is standing over a large crack in the ground. I can't tell how deep it is. Chuckles snaps a chemlight and drops it in. First it bounces off some boulders, and then we hear a splash. The light comes to a rest in a puddle of water. A huge swarm of gnats comes out of the cave, along with an insect the size of my thumb.

"Alright," Chuckles continues. "I vote that this is a pretty good site for an OP."

As much as I hate to admit it, he is right. The site has everything we need for an observation point: just the right view of the reservoir, cover and concealment all around, and the cave makes for an excellent hide site in case of trouble. Tiny sets down a Vietnam-era Chinese radio, two MREs, and a length of copper wire that can be used as an improvised antenna. We conceal the equipment in the cave and resolve to send a team back to this point after our patrol is complete.

We plot a course down the mountain, to a fishing village a half-mile away. We've only gotten started when Fasha falls into step next to me.

"What were those trucks?" she asks.

"Air defense systems."

"That's wonderful. I should try to steal one." I can't tell if she's joking or not.

"If you have to," I say. "But please wait until we're gone. Those things are going to be enough of a headache as it is."

"Are they dangerous?" she asks.

"Very. They can shut down any attempt to air assault into this place. We're going to have a hard time getting resupply or reinforcements, unless the Malaysian government wants to authorize a very risky and expensive bombing campaign all over the reservoir."

She thinks about this. "What is the alternative?"

"We destroy their radar installations the hard way."

It takes us just over half an hour to descend the rocky mountain slopes. This part is actually not so bad. It is infinitely easier to go down than up. Occasionally we have to use our hands to climb down, but the slopes are gentle enough that we don't need to use ropes.

The first village we come across rests in the shadow of a cliff that surrounds it like a clam. The cliffs are covered in trees and creeping vines. The long wooden houses are perched on tall stilts. It's the Malay custom to elevate all of their houses, even in places where they have no reason to fear the tides or floods. The village also sits on the delta where a secondary stream descends from the mountain and joins the main river. We cross this stream one at a time, sinking up to our chests in the water. The shorter Malays are up to their necks, with the exception of Tiny (who carries Fasha Tan on his shoulders). Even having crossed the river, it's not entirely clear where the land begins and the river ends. We are walking in ankle-deep puddles of silt that suck at our feet. Macaques chatter while they chew on fruit and play with shiny things. The village is unguarded now, so they can pilfer to their heart's content.

"What are we looking for?" I ask.

"I don't know," Fasha says. She keeps her AK-47 at shoulder height and sweeps left to right. "You'll know it when you see it."

Bombstrike and I give each other a knowing look: This is not helpful advice.

"Hello?" Chuckles asks, peeking into a door. "Selamat pagi?" He places the barrel of his weapon near the door-frame and then circles around it, revealing the interior piece by piece. The rebels are more willing to take risks. They walk about at the low ready and do not take enough care. Keep in mind, we're the generation that came up in Iraq. Every thing, place, person, or animal could be booby-trapped. Every time I see a rebel kick a pot or open a drawer, I cringe and expect it to explode.

"Anything?" I ask.

"Nope," Chuckles says. "This place is empty. Although, it would be nice if someone had a dog that could find things."

"Sorry, he just does bombs."

"Still an improvement over these dorks."

Tiny and his crew search a building. I wait a moment to see if it will explode. When it does not, I climb the wooden stairs and follow them inside. It's dark and smells of mold. I would expect to see rotting food, but I suspect the monkeys stole it. There are no electric lights here, although I do see a gasoline generator. The windows are made of movable wooden slats. They also have gaps in the walls at knee-height. Makes sense, as these people traditionally sit on the floor. I glance out the window and see the only concrete structure in the village, a walled building with a dome that I assume must be a mosque.

This house has a decorated kite hanging on the wall. At first I mistake it for a painted work of art, with its floral decoration and pastel colors. I see fishing nets and lengths of rope. Hand tools. A sleeping mat. A colorful mask hangs from the wall, and I can only guess at what spirit animal it was meant to represent. I glance at a table with some plastic bowls and cups. The centerpiece appears to be a brass bowl used for serving sirih leaves, which they traditionally chew at every social gathering. My fingers touch the bare wood surface, and stop on a photograph.

"Now that's funny," I say.

Chuckles comes to look. It's a Polaroid photo, and it looks new. Newer than anything in this place, to be sure. The photo depicts an Indian man with glasses, standing next to a woman in a blue hijab. Her face is covered with unpleasant burn scars. But she looks happy. Her eyes are the color of honey.

"Doctor David Brahamiah," I explain. "Burke's wife claim he invited them to Malaysia. And he was here."

"Is there a date on it?"

"No." Just then, Fasha Tan enters the building. "Have you seen this guy? Doctor Brahamiah?"

Fasha shrugs, but doesn't look at the photo. Something outside has her attention. "I remember the name," she says. "He was a doctor that came through a few months ago. Gave vaccines to the villagers. Things like that. Part of some charity."

"That's weird." The photo finds a safe place inside my kit. "I thought he was a biologist."

We keep moving through the village. All of the houses are much the same. Depressing. Small. Poor. Smelling of fish and mold. We find little else of value. Or rather, little of value to us. The place is littered with discarded clothes, family pictures, and the occasional toy. Just leftover pieces of human lives. I think about the refugees camping outside Wat Phra Gniap. I wonder how many of them came from this village. There's a reason all I have is a dog.

We move on, zig-zagging our way up the next slope. It is early morning now, and the sun is up. The plan is to follow the edge of the mountain to the southeast, and look for a second OP near the mouth of the river. This would allow us to look for any traffic moving out of the reservoir back towards the Thai border. I have not seen any Cobra watercraft, but it is the most logical exit point for low-flying aircraft. But more importantly, we might need to come back through this way if we mount an attack on the reservoir. We will need someone in position who can watch the entrance and let us know when it is safe to infiltrate.

We are just over half a mile southeast of the village. The forest here is less dense. Sight lines are good out to perhaps 75 meters. At this point, I am starting to get worn out. It has been twelve hours since we left the temple, and I estimate we have been hiking for about eight of that. My feet are sopping wet from crossing the stream. It makes an unpleasant squishing sound when I walk. This is the kind of nonsense I am thinking about, instead of paying attention to what is going on around me. And that is when I got shot in the chest.

 **14**

I fall flat on my back. I'm not actually hurt, although there will be bruises on my collarbone, later. The round hit me square in the center of the SAPI – the Kevlar-and-ceramic sandwich inserted in my plate carrier for just such an occasion. The wind is knocked out of me. I gasp for air and cough a little. When I move, I realize the plate has almost ceased to exist. Now I've just got a big sack of broken ceramic attached to my chest.

The whole forest turns into Hell. Automatic weapons open up from less than a hundred meters away. People start screaming and throwing themselves on the ground. I struggle to get to my feet. My boots slip in the mud. I'm disoriented. I reach out to grip a tree, and hear the whip-snap sound of bullets passing by my face. Pieces of bark disintegrate right before my eyes. I realize that I'm being an idiot, and fall to the prone.

It takes a moment to re-orient myself. Bombstrike is to my right, crouched behind a wide tree truck. She empties a magazine in a single burst of fully automatic fire. It drops into the grass and the loads another. Slaps the bolt release. Fires again. Hot pieces of brass flicker in the sun as they leap out of her weapon. I look back, and see Chuckles crawling through vegetation. He takes up a firing position and proceeds to fire in long bursts. They're trying to achieve fire superiority. The theory goes that whichever side puts out the most bullets can seize the initiative just by volume of fire. And then, having done so, they will be in position to maneuver on the enemy.

I don't think anyone will be maneuvering, here. Sword Guy tries to move forward by sprinting towards a tree. He immediately takes three in the chest and falls down, dead. His head rolls back so that he is looking at me, and I watch the lights go out. It's hardly even a metaphor. You can see the life pass out of someone's eyes when they exhale that final breath.

"Shoot!" Fasha Tan is shouting. I'm not even sure where she is; I just hear her voice. But when I place the weapon on my shoulder and peep down the ACOG, I can't see anything. No people. No muzzle flash. Nothing. The forest is so dense here, it's not possible for anyone to see beyond seventy-five meters or so. And trust me on this... A human head at seventy-five meters looks like a beach ball in your sights. I give up a long burst of grazing automatic fire at ground level, sweeping the barrel of my weapon from left to right and back again. Drop the mag. Slap in a new one. Hit the bolt. Take aim again.

Still nothing.

There's another burst of gunfire, and another rebel goes down.

"We need to fall back!" Chuckles says. Then a grenade hits a tree, and the whole thing explodes in front of us. I feel the shock-wave inside my chest. Hot splinters dig into my face and arms. Chuckles is screaming something, but I've gone completely deaf. All I can tell is that he's pointing to the right. Then the tree itself comes crashing to the ground. For a moment I'm terrified of being crushed. Then it lands with a tremendous thump that shakes the earth beneath me.

For a moment we just stare at each other like idiots. Then Chuckles pulls himself up to the side of the fallen tree and starts shooting again. It occurs to me, belatedly, that we suddenly have a literal ton of wood between us and the enemy. I crouch and move, tapping Bombstrike on the shoulder and motioning her to follow me. We both pull the pins on our smoke grenades and throw. It is truly astonishing how much colored smoke comes out of one of these things. Great purple clouds billow across the battlefield.

Cobra knows what is coming next. The only real uses for smoke grenades are signaling and providing concealment while moving. They can no longer see us – at least, I hope they can't – but they start shooting blindly into the cloud with the expectation they can catch someone on the move. It works. As I retreat from the smoke, I see Tiny with his PKM. He is firing from the hip, spraying the forest indiscriminately so as to cover our retreat. He takes a round in the leg and I see his flesh explode in crimson gore. He cries out and falls to his knees, then a burst of automatic fire cuts across his belly. Tiny is already dead. He just doesn't know it yet. He fires until the belt runs out, then finally falls backwards and gives up. Dead.

"Go!" I shout. I'm amazed I can hear my own voice. My ears are still ringing. Bullets pass through the leaves around me. People are screaming. And I have no idea what is going on. The truth is no one ever really does. Being in combat is like looking at the world through a soda straw. There could be a tank coming up behind me and I'd never know it. Your focus narrows intensely. All I really know is that we are done here. I'm running. Bombstrike is running. Tiny is dead. I've lost track of Chuckles and Fasha Tan. I look back one more time, and see a rebel running after us. He takes one in the back and falls down, gripping his neck. Dead.

We retreat down the hillside, half-running and half-sliding through the dead leaves and loose soil. At one point I lose my balance and fall forward. I reach out and grip a vine, and actually swing like some kind of idiot until I lose my grip and fall six feet to the Earth. Bombstrike tumbles face-first into a stream. I grab her by the vest and pull her to her feet.

"Where are we?" she asks. "Where is everyone?"

"I don't know," I say. There is still gunfire coming from the top of the hill, but it is sporadic now. Then it slows to the point that all I can hear is the occasional burst. We wait for a moment, hoping that we aren't the only ones that made it... but the odds are against us. Ambushes are, by definition, ridiculously lopsided affairs. The only reason I'm alive right now is sheer luck and an inch of ceramic plate. "We've got to move. Back to the village. Can you call in anything for us?"

"I'm on it," Bombstrike says, keying her mike. "Shipwreck, this is Bombstrike, over." If anyone picks up, I can't hear it.

It takes us five minutes to run back to the village. That is an eternity in combat time. I'm gasping for air with every single breath. It feels like my chest is full of knives. Hot beads of sweat are dripping down my face. Everything tastes like salt. But I have to keep my weapon up. I have to focus. "Come on old man," I whisper to myself.

The trick here is that once you've made contact with the enemy, it never really ends. You move as if you expect one more ambush. That means sweeping your gun around corners, looking for places to hide, and always scanning the horizon... Or at least, as much of a horizon as you can get in the jungle. For a moment, I think I see someone to the right. It comes out the corner of my eyes. I turn and take aim. There's a shape in the bark of the tree. But that's all it is. Just a shape. Mind playing tricks on me.

"Almost there," Bombstrike says. She points to the stream we waded in earlier. I lower myself into the water, and once again it is up to my waist. I stumble my way across the rocks and crawl out. Now it's Bombstrike's turn. She lowers herself into the water and is just about to move when- Oh. Oh no.

There is a crocodile in the water. A big one. Literally twenty feet long. It glides through the water like a serpent. The studded, armored hide crests above the water. It's like looking into some kind of primordial nightmare. I don't shout out. I don't even know what I would say. I just shoot. I empty the whole magazine into the water. What will my 5.56 do against a crocodile? I might as well be trying to kill a dinosaur.

Bombstrikes turns and shoots. Her first rounds go high and splash behind it. Then she aims down and sprays long bursts into its face. We both shoot and we don't stop until the monster is good and dead. Dark blood twists and curls across the surface of the brown water. Smoke rises from our weapons. We're both breathing hard; More from the shock of it than the exertion.

"Mutt!" she screams, and points.

There's two of them. The second crocodile is already on land. It charges me. How can something so big move so fast? The monster is on me in a second, and it's all I can do to leap back and kick at its snapping jaws. I try shooting, but I'm already empty. Instead I trip and fall down. The croc lunges again. The only thing between me and death is my wrist armor. I feed it to him, and he bites down on it. Hard. Maybe hard enough to break bone. But the teeth don't pierce it.

Instead, I have bigger problems. When a crocodile bites, the first thing it does is roll over so as to tear a chunk of meat from its prey. I do the only thing I can: Drag myself onto his back, grab him by the neck, and hang on. The croc rolls and crushes me beneath its bulk - but at least my arm is still attached. It rolls a second time and I slam into the ground. That one knocks the wind out of me. I'm seeing flashing lights in front of my eyes.

I try to reach for my handgun, but the moment my grip loosens the crocodile rolls again. If I let go, I'm dead. It's that moment I hear the bolt go forward on Bombstrike's SCAR. She presses the gun against the side of the monster's head and opens fire. I'm left there, on the ground, covered in crocodile, and gasping for air. Everything hurts. But I'm still alive.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "Yeah."

And that's when I see him.

Croc Master walks out of the jungle, cradling a rifle in his hand. The man is a titan wrapped in croc-hide armor. Six-foot-six and two hundred sixty pounds, at least. The regulator built into his mask hisses with every breath. Reflective red lenses hide his eyes from us. And his skin... His skin changes as he moves. First, he is the color of tree bark. Then he is speckled with green. And finally it turns the color of flesh. 'What the heck is that?', I wonder. 'Some kind of active camouflage?' No. That's his skin.

I realize I was wrong. This is the monster.

"Look out!" I shout.

Bombstrike spins, but she is too slow. He shoots from the hip and puts three rounds into her gut. She falls backwards into the mud. I draw my pistol and shoot with one hand. One bullet strikes his AK, right in the receiver. Three more bounce off his armor. The rest... God knows where they wind up. All it does is piss him off. He kicks the gun out of my hand and punches me in the face. When I try to catch myself, he stomps on my left hand and proceeds to crush my fingers beneath his boot. I hear – and feel – my ring finger snap. I scream like a little girl.

"What is this?" he says, staring down at me. His voice is from the grave. Black and wet, with a timbre that could shake the Earth. It even gurgles, just a little, as water drips from his voice-mitter. He twists his heel, and my broken finger twists the other direction. I curse out loud.

"GI Joe?" asks Croc Master. He cracks his knuckles. "Surrender now and I'll take good care of you. I never ate anyone who didn't deserve it."

I reach for the first rock I can find and slam it into his ankle. Croc Master stumbles, and I'm free. I roll to my feet and pick up my gun. Forget my finger is broken. Fumble it. Crap. Croc comes at me again. He is built like a pro wrestler, and he fights the same way. First he kicks me so that I roll backwards through the mud. Then he lifts me up and throws me into a tree. I hit it like a rag doll and crumple on the ground.

Come on, old man. Move. Just move.

Croc Master takes aim with his rifle and squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens. I can only guess that I must have damaged it earlier. He throws the weapon aside, but those three seconds buy me the time I need to get to my feet.

"Give it up, GI Joe."

"Give up?" I ask, raising my fists. I'm coughing, and gasping for air. I'm swaying like a drunk. It's all I can do to form complete sentences. "I'm just... Getting started."

Then I notice he is bleeding. I must have grazed him on the outside of his arm. His arm is stained in shades of red. It drips from his knuckles into the puddles at his feet. I grab up the first stick I see and strike the wound. Once. Twice. He is surprised. He tries to block. When he finally grabs the stick, I just give him my shoulder and we both fall into the mud.

Then I see something else. The freak show is wearing a knife on his belt. Now here is a piece of advice: When you get in a fight, the knife isn't your knife. The knife belongs to whoever thinks to grab it first. I'm already on top of him. I grab the knife and pull it free, then drive it into his collarbone. Croc Master screams in rage and agony. I stab again, splitting open his helmet as I push his head into the wet mud. I see bubbles and blood. I stab him again, and I don't stop stabbing until he stops moving.

And I'm done.

I have literally nothing left. Every muscle in my body is exhausted. I rest on my knees, over Croc's dead body. The knife falls from my limp fingers. I look at the sky and gasp for breath.

"Bombstrike?" I ask.

She doesn't reply.

Instead, I see them. Cobra. Three shapes moving in the jungle. They are blurry and indistinct. The active camouflage buried in their skin warps and changes as they move. Ghosts. All of them, ghosts. I see their camouflaged pants, and the Rhodesian rigs that carry their ammunition. At least those don't change. It's only the exposed skin. They're like some kind of cuttlefish, changing the color of the pores in their skin.

"Okay," I say, groping in the mud for a gun. "Okay. Come on. Come get some."

I never expected to hear the gunfire. I thought a bullet in my head would kill me before the sound caught up to it. It takes me an extra second to realize they aren't shooting. Chuckles is standing behind them, spraying the Ghosts with the PKM. He sweeps it left and right and doesn't stop until the belt is gone.

When all five are dead, he drops the weapon into a puddle, draws a pistol, and comes limping towards me. The man is a mess. His pants are shredded and stained with red. Scratches cover both arms, as if he pulled himself through a thorn-bush. His shirt is ruined and he sways like a drunk. Probably concussed.

"Mutt?" he asks. "You alive?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Bombstrike?"

Oh, God. Bombstrike.

We find her by the stream. She's done. Both hands are clutching her gut. The bullets went in right below the plate. There's more blood than I've ever seen in my life. She's not coming out of this.

"Bombstrike?" I ask. She realizes it's me, and she grabs hold of my wrist.

"I'm good," she says. "I'm good. Just give me a gun." Chuckles and I look at her. We can't even begin to treat this. We both pull out our first aid kits and find small wound dressings. Bombstrike has to manually hold them in place. It doesn't matter. Even with the dressings, she'll bleed out internally.

"Alyssa," I start, and then realize I have no idea what to say.

"I know," she says. "Just give me a gun." She is struggling to breathe now. That means her lungs are filling up. I stab an IV needle into her collarbone to relieve some of the pressure. That might buy her thirty seconds. Chuckles hands her a pistol.

"Mutt," Bombstrike whispers. "I'm good. You've got to go now. Go on. Please." She's gripping my wrist like a vise and doesn't even realize it. I have to literally pry her fingers off.

"Are we set?" Chuckles asks. He picks up a rifle and slaps in a new magazine.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's go."

"What? No way. We're taking her."

"It's done." I try to reach for him.

"No!" he shouts, slapping at my hand.

Gunfire erupts from the forest. A bullet grazes Chuckles' leg. He falls on one knee, and starts shooting into the treeline. I grab him by the carrying handle on the back of his vest and drag him. He kicks, he screams, and he shoots until his magazine runs dry.

I don't see it end. I just keep going. First I hear the shouting. Then I hear the sound of Bombstrike's handgun. And finally the chatter of assault rifles.

 **15**

"Hey Mutt," Chuckles says.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"How is it we're still alive?"

"I don't know, man. God must hate us or something."

We're sitting on the edge of a river, a few miles north of the village. I have no idea how far we ran to escape the ambush site. Three miles, maybe. It's funny how every time you think your body is completely spent, you can dig just a little bit deeper and keep going just a little bit longer. I guess the fear of death will do that to you.

The sky is a warm shade of amber. The sun is a red flare setting in the West. The world is painted in black and gold. I see a dark pillar rising in the distance. It might be smoke, but it is probably the bats. Has it really been twenty-four hours since we started this? I can't even keep track anymore. I'm nauseous. My skin burns. I ache inside and out. The broken finger of my left hand is swollen and throbbing. I can't even move it anymore.

But I am alive.

If 'knowing' is half the battle, then 'staying alive' must be the other half.

"Did you see anyone else?" I ask.

"No," Chuckles says.

"Fasha Tan?"

"I said, 'No.'"

Chuckles is crouching in a depression, shielded by a boulder to his left and bushes to his right. The dressing tied to his leg is stained dark crimson. He's definitely going to need an new pair of pants. Actually, if we make it out of this we're going to need new everything. We sip rubber-flavored water from our canteen bladders and we're thankful for it. Time passes slowly when you have nothing to do but wait. It isn't safe to exfiltrate until after nightfall.

"How long has it been? Twelve hours?"

"Yeah," he mumbles.

This is how it goes. Most people don't realize there is such a thing as adrenaline withdrawal. For the longest time you feel like an engine pushing the red-line. Then you come off of it, and your body crashes. It's not just the fatigue, or the ache in your muscles, or that drifting, light-headed feeling. It's a deep depression that wraps you in a black cloud and makes you ask, 'what's the point of all this?' It's the feeling that you don't matter and nothing you do matters. We die out here in the jungle and we have nothing to show for it. All the colors seem muted, now. The world is quiet and unimportant.

I can't tell the difference between genuine, deserved guilt, and the post-adrenal crash. There may not be any difference, at all. Maybe you just hit the point where you see something so terrible that all your illusions fall apart and you can't justify going on, even to yourself. I can't even blink without seeing her die all over again. These are the thoughts that come to you when its all over, and you have nothing left to do but think.

I try to think about something else, like the kids I never get to see.

"Mutt," Chuckles says. He hesitates, just for a moment. I say nothing. I don't want to encourage him. I know what he's going to say, and I don't want to hear it. "I like you and all, but I think you've got to own this one."

"What?" I ask, even though I know what he means.

"You should have brought the dog. You know, the one with a thermal camera mounted on his back?"

"Junkyard's hurt. I've got to take care of him."

"So you traded him for Bombstrike?"

"That's not how it works," I say. Not actually a denial.

"Yeah," Chuckles whispers. "Yeah, it is. His whole job is to spot things we can't. So we don't get ambushed and shot to pieces. But you left him behind. I mean... That's your whole thing, right? You're the dog guy. That's like, if Tripwire showed up without his mine detector, and somebody's leg got blown off. He dropped the ball on the one thing he's supposed to do, and somebody paid the price. A lot of people paid the price."

"I'm his Dad," I insist. "He counts on me to keep him safe."

"No," Chuckles says. "You're his owner. And you tell me: If you aren't willing to deploy with him, what's the point of having him in the first place?"

I shake my head, even though he's not looking at me. "You don't get it. You've never had to make a choice."

Chuckles looks me in the eye. For the first time since I've been here, possibly even for the first time since I've known him, he just looks me straight in the eye and stares. "You don't know me," he finally says. "And you don't know what I've done."

The first impulse is to tell him to get lost. But I don't. I'm past being offended. I'm even past being angry. Now I'm just tired and used up. I don't even have the energy left to argue with him. Not right now. So instead I rationalize. I tell myself Chuckles is just upset and looking for someone to blame. I tell myself he is all ego, and he needs excuses to explain his failures. I tell myself he doesn't understand. Then I start wondering if I'm even talking about Chuckles anymore.

The sun sets. The world is dark. Barely an hour after nightfall, we hear the sound of a motor. Shipwreck and Torpedo come down the river in their long-tail fishing boat. I start flashing my IR beacon. It's not a perfect solution. Cobra has night vision, too. But it's what we've got and its better than nothing. They find us on the river bank. Shipwreck sits at the rear with the engine and the rudder. Torpedo crouches behind a tripod-mounted 240.

"You boys all set?" Shipwreck asks.

We crawl out of the bushes and wade into the water. The muddy bottom clings to our boots. It takes every ounce of my strength – and Torpedo's help – to drag myself over the side and onto the boat.

"Hang on," he says. "Where is everybody?"

"They aren't coming," Chuckles says.

"What? Seriously? Where's Bombstrike? What happened?"

"We're it," I say. "Get us out of here."

There's a long moment of silence. Eventually Shipwreck gives it some gas and turns us around. We head north, threading our way up the river of ink. Bats chase flying insects above our heads. The motor is unpleasantly loud. I lay back against a pile of rope and wonder at the injustice of a world that lets me escape while Bombstrike dies. I'm an old man. It's not fair.

"Where are we headed?" Shipwreck asks.

"The temple," I say. "I've got to get my dog."


	4. Chapter 4

**16**

It's quiet when we pull into Wat Phra Gniap.

Since we left Wat Phra Gniap last night, we have spent just over twenty-four hours in the field. The longest day in my life. I actually don't remember anything about the journey back. I am so crushed and exhausted that I fall asleep immediately. Torpedo wakes me up just before we return. We don't bother taking the back way in. They just pull right up to the dock and tie the boat up.

I don't know what anyone expected, but this isn't it. The refugees are fewer now. I expect many of them have moved on to the larger cities. There are about a hundred left, still camping on the shoreline with their trash bags full of household goods. It is very dark, and the moon is only now creeping over the mountaintops. They is in small groups around campfires and eat from MRE pouches. One by one they stop what they are doing and turn towards us. A mother hugs her daughter so that the child doesn't have to look at us. I can see the disappointment in their faces.

What a sight we must be. We are the walking dead, covered in blood and filth and sweat. Our clothes are stained and stiff. My face is crusted with salt crystals. Lord knows how bad we must stink. There's no clear distinction between faded camouflage face paint and plain old grime. We limp our way up the slope; Chuckles because of the grazing wound on his leg and me just because I'm old and torn up.

Junkyard is the first to greet me. He runs with a limp, but he runs all the same. I don't know how he recognizes me when I'm covered in crap and soaked through with sweat. But he sits at my feet and thumps his tail until I kneel down and give him a great, big hug. Dogs are not big on hugs. Chest-to-chest contact is something apes do. A dog prefers to lay alongside someone. If it was anyone else but me, Junkyard would probably bite their face off. But I'm his Dad, and he knows that I need him right now, so he puts up with it. It's only when I relax and let myself collapse against a piece of ancient masonry that he starts licking my face.

Good dog.

"Mister Chuck," Aziz calls. "Mister Chuck, where is everyone?"

Chuckles can't bring himself to look at him. He just mumbles, "We're it, kid," and keeps walking.

"No, wait!" Aziz says. "Fasha Tan is on the radio!"

"What?" we ask in unison. My muscles get a new burst of energy, and I hurry to follow Aziz through the halls.

The temple is oppressively dark. Our only light sources are candles and chemlights, which make it look like some sort of weird Hindu version of Christmas. There is a gasoline generator chugging away somewhere outside the temple. It sounds muted and distant. We follow a slapped-together string of electrical wires deeper into the temple complex. The radio room, such as it is, sits adjacent to the TOC.

I find the three rebels we left behind for guard duty. They are crouched over an NVA VTS-2 radio, fiddling with the dials and pushing random buttons. I can only assume these three were left behind because they were the village idiots. Note to self: As tempting as it may be, do not leave the three dumbest guys behind to run the CP. I decide to call them Larry, Curly, and Moe for what I hope are obvious reasons.

"She is transmitting every ten minutes or so," Aziz explains.

I try to twist the volume knob and find that it is already turned all the way up. Even so, I can just barely hear Fasha Tan whispering over the static. She alternates between Malay and English, just hoping someone will pick up. "OP to Base Camp, over? Any station this net?"

"She can't hear us," Larry says.

It's hard to be in the SF world without picking up a thing or two about radios. I'm not Dial-Tone, but I can get by. We pop open the back of the set to check the power supply and see that this thing is a piece of junk MacGuyvered together with lengths of wire and duct tape. It is weirdly slapped together with some stages being actual 50's-era vacuum tubes while other components are transistors. It's no wonder these people have no COMSEC if this is the equipment they are transmitting on.

"Can you make heads or tails of this?" I ask Chuckles.

"She could hear you before, right?" he asks the rebels.

They start nodding. "Yes. For the first few hours. Now we can hear, but not talk back."

"We need more gain," Chuckles says. "Can we add power?"

"No," I say. "We have to check out the antenna."

Mountainous jungle is the worst possible environment for radio communications. First, the humidity eats up your equipment. Did you know fungus can grow on on your equipment and damage its performance? I didn't. Then there is the problem of vegetation absorbing your transmission's energy. It's like shouting into a pile of laundry. And on top of that, we also have the problem of the mountains themselves blocking transmissions. The mountains can reflect radio waves in ways that are hard for a non-expert to predict. Most low-power radios will only work on a line-of-sight basis, meaning you need an almost completely unobstructed space between the two antennas. The sets we are using here aren't that bad, but they aren't great, either.

Aziz leads us up a flight of stairs to the roof of the temple. I see the problem right away. The rebels are using the basic whip antenna that came with the set. On top of that, there are trees surrounding the antenna. This steals power, and if even one leaf touches the antenna it can create a grounding. The first thing we do is attempt to move the antenna. It is a time-consuming process, because every time we try a new location we have to wait ten minutes for Fasha to hit her transmission window.

When that doesn't work, we try tilting the antenna at an angle. The logic here is that a vertically oriented antenna will transmit outwards. Imagine a giant dinner plate shape and you'll get the idea. This works well in flat areas, but not in our mountain jungle. We tilt the antenna so that the metaphorical 'dinner plate' sits at an angle. More power is transmitted into the sky, which allows it to bounce off the atmosphere and – we hope – come down the other side of the mountain.

"Still nothing?" I shout down the stairs.

"No," Chuckles says.

"Then get up here. We're going to have to do this the hard way."

In this case, the 'Hard Way,' means improvising a 292-style antenna out of wire and sticks. It's tons of fun. Really. The design isn't so much hard as it is time-consuming. We start with lengths of bamboo that we can tie into a triangle with a few pieces of Type III nylon. At each corner we fix a piece of copper wire, using an MRE spoon as a makeshift insulator. These three pieces attach to a fourth piece of wire, so that they make a tetrahedron. This is a fancy word for a three-sided pyramid shape. I do my best to cut wire and tie it off, but it is extremely hard to do the work with a broken finger. I have to sit on the side and give directions to Aziz, Torpedo, and Shipwreck.

"You look nervous, man," Shipwreck says.

"I've got to get Fasha back."

"No doubt. The Three Stooges down there will probably kill us if we screw this up."

I shake my head. "Forget them. I couldn't bring Bombstrike back. I have to save Fasha."

Shipwreck stops working for a minute and glares at me. "Don't put that on yourself, man. You make those kinds of promises and you're setting yourself up for failure."

We finish by hoisting the apparatus into the air. Aziz is the only one small enough to climb the sharinga trees growing out the temple roof. Once the device is suspended, we sit there and admire our handiwork while waiting for Fasha's next transmission.

"Is that it?" Aziz asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Now all we do is wait." Junkyard whines and licks my hand. His tongue touches my injured finger and I can practically feel broken bones grinding together. When I jerk my hand away, he retreats. Poor dog knows he's hurt me, but he doesn't understand why. I'm starting to get frustrated with my own stupidity. "Can somebody please bring me an aid bag?"

Aziz hurries off to get find a first aid kit. He returns with the servant girl. She has a large bag of medical supplies that Shipwreck and Torpedo delivered two days ago. There isn't really any way to fix a broken bone. I just have to look away while Shipwreck tugs on it and sets the bone. For a moment the pain is excruciating and I almost cry out. But when he's done, it actually feels much better. The girl applies a metal brace to the finger, and I bend it halfway into a grasping shape. This is not recommended by physical therapists. Screw them. If I can't hold onto a forward grip, I'm useless here.

It's when she taping me up that I look into her honey eyes and suddenly realize what I've been missing this whole time.

"It's you," I whisper.

She looks confused.

I reach into my shirt and pull out the Polaroid. When I hold it up, she looks shocked. I have to hold the photo up to her face to be sure. The girl in the photo has burn scars covering about a third of her face. The girl in front of me doesn't. But her lips and jaw are the same. Her embroidered blue hijab is the same. And her golden honey eyes are definitely the same.

"What's your name?" I ask.

Still confused. Doesn't speak English.

"Aziz!" I shout, and Junior Boondocks comes running.

"Siapa nama anda?" he asks.

"Khadijah."

Khadijah. Alright. That's a start. Aziz has to act as my interpreter, but we get by and the conversation looks something like this:

"This is you in the picture," I say.

"I don't want to talk about it," Khadijah says. She waves a hand at me and tries to leave.

"It's okay, hang on, just look at me for a second. This is you. How is that possible?"

She takes a deep breath.

"I was hurt as a child. This man came to the village. He stays at the big house on the lake. He did surgery on my face. Gave me what he called a 'graft.' And some kind of medicine." She touches the part of her face that is pale and discolored. The skin graft is imperfect, but clearly an improvement over the burn scars I saw in the photos. "I was happy, at first. And he took some of the people away to give them more medicine. But they didn't come back. We started to get worried. And then the ghosts came." Now her voice trails off, and I see tears in her eyes. "First it was the ghosts. And then there were... Other things."

"That's okay," I say, while Aziz continues to translate. "Look at me, please. This is important. I don't need to hear about the ghosts. What else did this man give you?"

"She doesn't know," Aziz interjects.

"Okay, that's fine. But I need to hear it from her. Please."

He shrugs and repeats my question. I hate using an interpreter for exactly this reason. An interpreter, even when they mean well, has the power to make assumptions and color a person's words with shades of meaning. It can be very dangerous if not handled carefully. In the end, Khadijah claims she doesn't know what Brahamiah gave her. I don't doubt it. But I need to be certain, and I need to Socratically lead her to my next question.

"How did he come to meet you in the first place?" I ask.

She chooses her words carefully. It's hard to tell if she is trying to cover something up, or if she just wants to avoid giving the wrong impression. I catch her picking at the dry skin on her lip when she is anxious.

"He came to our village with a charity. I forget what it was called. He asked if anyone was injured. We showed him a man who had been bitten by a crocodile. The doctor gave him an injection, and he was healed within two days. I was scalded in an accident when I was a child. He visited me three times and gave me injections each time. My face healed slowly, but it healed. God is great. He never asked for money. He never told me why. I never learned who he worked for." Her hands suddenly turn into fists. "And I don't care, either! He fixed me. He fixed everyone!"

Aziz looks at me, but I nod and he continues. Just then, Khadijah realizes what is happening. She grows quiet, and takes a step back.

"What are you going to do?" she asks.

"I'm going to find him. I don't want to hurt him."

She shakes her head. Strands of dark hair escape her hijab. A tear runs down her cheek and she starts to tremble. "I don't believe you. You're the devil. Oh God, they were right! You don't care about us at all. You killed Fasha Tan and you're going to kill him too."

"Alright," I say, waving my hand at Aziz. "We're done. Tell her... I don't know, just tell her to get out of here."

I don't know what Aziz says, but she turns around and tries to run. Junkyard looks at me in anticipation; Wondering if he should chase her. I touch his head, and he relaxes. In the event, she doesn't make it far. It's only a few paces before she collapses, hides her face in her hands, and starts sobbing. That's the hard part about running away; By the time things get bad enough for you to run, you probably have nowhere left to go.

"What is going on, Mister Mutt?" Aziz asks.

"She's... She's scared. And she doesn't know what to do. And it's no wonder. Whatever Fasha Tan did here, she took care of these people. So she blames us. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters any more."

Whatever is going on in Aziz' head, he doesn't say. He just looks at her. Maybe he wants to help. Maybe he blames himself. I just shrug, pet my dog, and pretend to study my damaged hand. Like I said. None of it matters. All that's left is the mission. My mission and my dog.

It's only a moment later that I hear Chuckles calling for me. I follow a twisted, uneven staircase down into the depths of the temple, where there is no moonlight, or bugs, or creeper vines. Just Chuckles and a busted-up NVA radio.

"Alright, man. We're back in business. Check this out." He leans into the mike. "OP, this is Base Camp. Say 'Hi' to Burt Reynolds. Burt, you're on the air."

"Umm, Okay," I begin. "This is Base Camp. Radio check, over."

"I'm here," Fasha Tan says.

Now I can't help but smile. The knotted muscles between my shoulders finally relax. At least something has gone right.

"How cool is that?" Chuckles claps his hands and grins. "It's true. We are fueled by pure awesomeness."

Not for the first time, I wonder how he can flip that switch of his so easily.

"OP, Base Camp," I say. "Please provide update on your situation."

The radio is silent for a moment.

"Base camp," she begins. "I'm at the OP we scouted earlier. I am hiding in the cave. There is water here. Food for... Two more days. I think I'm safe, for now."

"Got it. How, um... How did you make it out?"

"Took cover until you threw smoke. Then I hid and let the ghosts pass over me. One of them got very close. Then I moved uphill, and circled around the ridge to get back to the OP. I've been trying to call for hours."

"Yeah," I say. "We just got the radio thing figured out. Look, we need you to stay put right now. We'll come for you. Just stay hidden and keep transmitting on the hour. Do you have a weapon?"

Another pause.

"Yes," Fasha says. "My Kalashnikov."

I make the universal throat-cut gesture. Chuckles lets go of the mike.

"What was that?" I ask.

"She's embarrassed," he says. "Something is wrong and she doesn't want to admit it."

"So does she have a gun or not?" I press the transmit button again. "OP, this is Base Camp. I know this is hard, but I need an honest assessment of your situation. Do you have a weapon?"

"Yes," she says, immediately.

"And is that weapon operational?"

"Yes. But I lost some of my ammo. I dropped it somewhere in the cave and I can't find it. I'm down to one magazine."

Chuckles rolls his eyes. "How deep is that cave?"

I ignore him for the moment. "It's alright, OP. We don't need you to engage right now. Do not use your weapon unless it is an emergency. Your new mission is to observe enemy movements and call up SPOT reports. We're going to leave Aziz here to operate the radio. The rest of us are going to come and find you. It's going to be a couple of hours. If we lose contact, just keep transmitting every hour on the hour, and we will re-establish contact at the first opportunity. Do you have a phone with you?"

"No. No I don't. And Cobra has shut down the towers, anyway."

"Good. We won't need it." Cell phones are the devil's work. The last thing we need is for somebody to be out in the jungle and get compromised by a ringing phone. "Just hang in there until we can get back to you. We're going off the net, now. Is there anything else we need to know?"

"No. No, I'm good. But wait... Is anyone else there?"

I consider lying to her. But I don't. "No," I admit. "We're the only ones who made it."

Another pause. "Okay. I understand. I'm glad you're okay."

"You, too," I say. "Just keep your head down. Base camp, out."

A long silence passes. We're both thinking the same thing, but neither one of us wants to say it. But it's a question that needs to be asked.

"Do you think she's already compromised?" I ask.

"Fasha Tan?" Chuckles asks, as if he wasn't already considering it. "Are you kidding me?" He tips his chair back and rocks on the back legs. "No. No, I don't think so."

"We didn't establish a duress word or anything."

He shrugs. "Well, we're not going to get an answer by guessing. What do you want me to say?"

I pop my knuckles one by one. "I need to know if she's with us or not. I need to know if I can trust her. Because from what I've seen so far, this operation is kind of – um – half-baked."

Chuckles crosses his arms and keeps rocking. He is running out of ways to hide his anxiety. "I don't know, man. I thought she was hard core. But this whole experience has been like watching a slow-motion train wreck. Maybe she used to be cool, but right now she is definitely out of her league."

"That's one way to put it."

Junkyard stands up. He starts sniffing the air. I look down the hall, expecting Aziz to show up. Or maybe one of the Stooges. Someone steps in front of a candle and casts their shadow on the wall. I can't make out the shape, but they are moving slowly. Listening in, maybe? Junkyard glances at me to make sure I'm paying attention. He points with his nose, and starts to creep forward.

"Shipwreck?" I ask.

"What's up?" he replies, from somewhere behind and above us.

"Nothing," I say. "Never mind." My heart rate spikes. That knotty feeling between my shoulders comes back. I look at Chuckles, and I whisper: "Do you have a gun?"

"What? No. Why?"

I pull my handgun from my belt. His face drops as he starts to understand.

"Oh, crap," he says. "They're here, aren't they?"

"Get ready to run."

 **17**

They never expect the dog. I find this funny.

In the space of two seconds, Junkyard dashes into the hallway and sinks his teeth into the Viper's wrist. He screams and panics. Did I mention they always panic? Random gunfire ricochets off the floor and into the ceiling. I turn the corner with my weapon ready. For a moment, its not even clear what I'm looking at. He's just a shape, punching and kicking Junkyard. The pants are some kind of digital camo, and the webbing is olive drab, but his skin... It shifts and blooms and explodes in weird colors. I can see the pain as he loses control of his camouflage. I only watch for a moment before I aim at what I think is supposed to be his head and squeeze the trigger twice. Gunfire in a confined space is astonishingly loud. It leaves my ears ringing. But the other guy has it worse. He drops dead.

"Junk," I say. "Down."

Then I see movement in the darkness. Someone steps in front of a candle. He is not invisible. The skin doesn't adapt to the light. It casts a man-shaped silhouette. And the shadow raises his weapon. I shoot twice more as I duck back around the corner. A burst of gunfire chips off pieces of masonry inches from my face.

The dead Viper has dropped his rifle. I want to reach for it. I really do. But the second shooter has me pinned. Junk doesn't realize his tail is sticking out, and he very nearly loses it. I can't even try to reach for the weapon. The best I can do is aim blindly around the corner and empty the rest of my magazine in his general direction.

Drop the mag. Reload. Get ready.

It's time to fall back, into the radio room. Junkyard follows me. I'm only halfway across the room when I turn and see movement behind me. He sprays gunfire at hip-level. The stupid radio takes a round and explodes in a shower of sparks. I fall to one knee and return fire. Hot casings leap out of my weapon and skip off the walls. I fire four rounds, but between the darkness and the camouflage I can barely see him. It's like I'm shooting at a blurry, man-shaped smear. He fires another burst. Muzzle flash explodes from the barrel of his rifle. A bullet passes within an inch of my ear. Then I hear gunfire above and behind me. Chuckles is standing there with an AK-47. I fall back, deeper into the temple, as he exchanges gunfire with the Viper.

We keep moving, always retreating, until we cross through the courtyard with the ancient pillars. I duck behind one, and Chuckles behind the other. Junkyard is somewhere to my left. Bullets hit the pillars and deform into whining ricochets. I can feel the impacts translated through the stone. Junk cries out as a bullet strikes the ground between his feet. Even a Special Forces dog has his limits.

"Ready?" Chuckles says.

He doesn't wait for me to nod. He just takes aim and sprays. I shout to Junkyard, and the dog takes off at a sprint. We lay down suppressive fire together until Junkyard hits the Viper at full speed. The Viper falls back with the dog on top of him. He screams. He kicks. He shoots into the air. It's a messy way to die.

"Keep watching that hall," I shout. The last thing I want is for another one to come sneaking up on Junk while he does his work.

That's when I see another man-shape emerging from a wall. I squeeze off two rounds, and when it doesn't drop I shoot two more. It's only when my slide locks to the rear that I realize I am shooting an ancient Hindu statue. So, I thought it was a bad guy. Sue me.

"Nice one," Chuckles says.

And I'm empty.

"Junk," I call. "Bring to Daddy. Right there, bring to Daddy." He comes back with a rifle in his mouth. It isn't the full-scale Viper rifle. Rather, it's some kind of drum-fed 9mm submachine gun with an attached flashlight and an over-sized scope. I take aim and sweep the room from left to right. Using the flashlight is always a gamble. I'm sure it would help spot Vipers, but not without painting myself as a target.

"Don't do it," Chuckles says.

"I need his ammo."

"Frick," he mumbles. "Fine. Go."

I sweep right, around the edge of the courtyard, taking cover behind pillars. My shoulder's 'float' as I move. It is an unnatural way to walk, trying to keep your arms and your weapon as still as possible. The goal is to shoot as fast as possible should a target appear. Not something you can do if your gun is bouncing around.

I've cleared the other end of the room, but before I steal his mags I glance down the hall. The radio is a smoking ruin. Too bad. For a moment I'm surprised that my target over-extended himself. He got caught up in chasing me and moved faster than his buddies could follow. I flash the light, and see he isn't alone. There's at least one more Viper in the radio room, coming towards me. He squeezes off a burst of gunfire but misses. Probably dazzled by the flashlight.

There's no good way for a right-handed shooter to clear a right-side corner. You can shift the weapon to your left hand, which costs time and accuracy. Or you can lean farther out, so that you keep your dominant shooting hand but expose more of your body. I'm trying to decide which is the lesser of two evils when I hear something metal land on the stone in front me me.

There's not even enough time to shout. I fall backwards and lay as flat as possible. The grenade goes off. The dead Viper sucks up most of the fragmentation. But my God, it's loud. The shock wave thumps inside my chest and rattles my teeth. I'm left stunned and disoriented. Junkyard – the only dog on Earth who runs towards explosions – runs right up next to me and lets me grab his coat. He leads me away from the Viper while Chuckles shoots past me.

"We're done," he shouts, even though I can't hear him. "Let's go!"

Now it's his turn to drag me out of the frying pan. I stumble backwards. We work our way to the rear of the temple and the secret exit in the back. The first turn opens up into a long hallway. I have to grope my way along the wall until my balance comes back. My inner ear feels as if I'm perpetually falling to the left. It's all I can do to stay upright. I try not to vomit. I fail.

Chuckles drags me into the next room, and somehow my night gets even worse. Khadija is crouching in a corner with her hands over her head. One of the rebels is already dead. Another is wrestling with someone I can barely see. I arrive just in time to see the Viper kick him against a wall and then squeeze a burst of gunfire into his chest. Chuckles takes aim, but in the last moment before he squeezes the trigger Khadija leaps up and runs towards us. Even in the darkness I can see the stark white terror in her eyes. She takes a burst in the back. She falls. She is dead, or she will be soon. Either way, there is nothing we can do but take revenge. Chuckles shoots past her and hits the Viper.

I don't have time to think about it. Junkyard barks, and I realize there is no one watching my six. I turn, still half-falling and dizzy, and take aim. It's just then that I realize the optic on my submachine gun is thermal. The walls of the temple are battleship gray. The blurred shape creeping around the corner looks like a hot white silhouette through the scope. I place the cross-hairs over his chest and squeeze the trigger. The gun makes a sound like marbles rattling in a coffee can. The closest thing I can compare it to is a pocket-sized MG42. Through the optic, gray walls get painted with white liquid.

"Mister Chuck!" Aziz shouts from above us. The room's ceiling is open to the sky. I can see Shipwreck standing above us, spraying and praying with an MP5. Casings fall down on our heads. One of them gets trapped in the back of my collar and burns my skin.

"Are you okay?" Chuckles asks.

"Everyone is going crazy," he says. I can only imagine. The temple is turning into an abattoir. The refugee camp outside must be Bedlam.

Chuckles points to the south. "We're heading to the back. Meet us there."

I hear an explosion from the north end. If there are any better options, I can't guess what they might be. We keep moving at a jog. The concussion must be passing because I don't feel as seasick anymore. I lead the way with my thermal scope. Someone is laying prone in the darkness. The optic lets me watch his life drain out in glowing river. There is a tiny voice inside me that just wants to scream at how wrong it all is. I have to grab that little voice and choke the life out of it, just long enough to get me to the point where I can breathe again.

We emerge into the hot, wet jungle night. The world is pitch black. Vines and thorns tug at us with every step we take. Junkyard runs ahead, sniffing left and right in a zig-zag pattern. Chuckles takes cover behind a tree and tries to scan the forest. I do a slow three-sixty scan. The thermal scope isn't perfect. It cannot penetrate the leaves or the grass. I just see flickers of hot – white. A mouse here, a bird there. A hand. A foot. I hold my fire long to enough to see Aziz and Shipwreck emerge from the forest.

"Where's Torpedo?" I ask.

"No idea," Shipwreck says. He grabs Aziz by the shoulder and pull him to the center of our little group. Each Joe faces outwards, our weapons pointed in a protective triangle. There is gunfire coming from the north. And screaming. I don't know what is happening. I don't want to know. For a moment we are paralyzed by our collective indecision. Then a whispering Mamba sweeps overhead, and I know we're done here.

"That's it," I say. "We're out of time."

"We can't leave without him," Shipwreck says. He starts jogging north, heading back towards the sound of the guns.

Chuckles curses. We follow. By the time we've circled back around the side of the temple, the place is in flames. The refugees have scattered. Some of them are dead, but not many. The world is painted in shades of black and orange. We crouch behind a fallen pillar and see a Cobra Stun with a pair of Vipers. Not the ghosts. I mean regular Vipers, with their faceless chrome masks. Torpedo is laying at their feet, with his hands flex-cuffed behind his back.

"How many can that thing seat?" Chuckles asks.

"Four," I say. "But hang on."

I don't have a grenade launcher, but it's not just the Mamba that worries me. I can hear engines to the west. Another Stun? I HISS? I can't tell. Torpedo tries to squirm onto his back, and maybe sit up, but a Viper gives him a butt-stroke to the head. Shipwreck almost shoots him dead, but Chuckles holds him back. I peek through the thermal scope, and there I see it: A ghost is sitting in the Stun's command seat. If we tried to rescue Torpedo, he would have killed us all.

"It's now or never," Shipwreck says.

"Don't worry," I whisper. "I've got him."

We split our targets; left, right, and center. And we count from three. On the last syllable of 'one,' we all open fire. It's not perfect. Professional snipers practice for hours to achieve synchronized shots. But it's close enough. All three vipers drop, and we advance.

The Stun is an ugly piece of work. It's essentially a three-thousand pound trike with dual 20mm guns to either side. Most of the weight is taken up by the egg-shaped glacis armor. It rides on overly-wide tires that I expect are there to keep the stupid thing from flipping over. The commander sits in a chariot-style third seat behind and slightly above the two operators, while the fourth passenger controls the pintle mounted rear gun. They were intended to serve as lightweight scout vehicles that could be airlifted into remote locations. I'm not sure it was ever that popular, given that the only operators seem to be card-carrying Cobra Vipers.

Anyway, it's ours now.

Shipwreck cuts Torpedo loose. They immediately take positions as left and right operators. I crawl into the commander's seat, and Junkyard squeezes himself between my feet. Chuckles takes the rear seat, and Aziz sits awkwardly behind him. This thing was not made for six. I wait for a moment, expecting the thing to go somewhere. It's only then that I realize the two front operators are actually gunners. It's the commander that operates the thing with a fly-by-wire joystick. Great.

I touch the stick, and the Stun lurches. It's only then that I realize why they keep using it: This thing can move. Ribbed tires grip deep into the mud. There must be some kind of gyroscope inside to keep it upright, because the entire chassis seems to lean into the turn. I straighten her out and accelerate down a jungle trail. It lunges forward, and throws me back against the seat. Aziz is screaming out loud. Chuckles, facing backwards, almost falls out. I can't see what's going on back there, but I think Aziz is the only thing that kept him from eating dirt. The Stun almost outruns its headlights. It's almost too fast for the tight jungle path. I survive the first two turns, but botch the third. I'm so afraid of rolling the Stun that I don't turn hard enough. The right-side gun mount strikes a tree and shears right off. Shipwreck curses and ducks. Sparks explode from shredded electrical wiring.

"Are we good?" I shout. Nobody hears me. The engine is too loud, and we are moving too fast. Vines and tree branches slap at my face.

We drive maybe two miles through the twisting path, until we run into a main road. I can feel the difference as the tires grip the paved surface. We're going even faster now, almost out of control, diving deeper into the darkness. It's only then that I remember why we avoided the roads in the first place: There's a Cobra checkpoint on a bridge ahead. They've got a Stinger truck parked across the road. A pair of Vipers are ready with a squad automatic. Maybe they mistake us for friendlies. Maybe they're just bad at their jobs. Either way, they hesitate for that split-second it takes Torpedo to draw a bead and open fire. The 20mm guns turn human beings into hash. It absolutely shreds the front half of the truck. The road still isn't wide enough... But when we hit it, the truck gets slung out of the way and the armored Stun keeps rolling.

I'll say it: Cobra gets all the best toys.

 **18**

We don't stop until we're almost to Narathiwat. Then we drive the Stun into a river and hide in the woods until morning. Waking up is like getting doused with ice water. I jerk upright, gasping and disoriented. The sun is already shining. There's no telling how long I've been out. I couldn't even tell you what day it is. You aren't supposed to let a concussion victim sleep, but I'm not sure they could have stopped me. I've been up almost nonstop for the last few days. The last forty-eight hours slowly come back to me. Snapshots of memory fall together like a jigsaw puzzle. Junkyard licks my face.

"Welcome back," Shipwreck says. "You've been out for eight hours."

We are hiding beneath a large camo-net, which is odd because I know we didn't have one of those before. I'm resting on an olive drab cot. It looks as though I've missed a lot. I glance at my watch. It is really seven? Chuckles is still unconscious. Aziz is curled up with Junkyard. His tail thumps when he sees me, but he doesn't get up. A Chenowth A.W.E. dune buggy sits a few meters away. They've got it dug into a hull-down position, so that only the mounted .50 cal peeks over the berm. We're still surrounded by jungle, so we can't have gone far. Stalker is sitting in the front seat, tapping away at his JBC-P computer.

"You look like death," he says, without actually looking at me. "What happened to Bombstrike?"

"Croc Master," I say.

"Yeah, that's what I heard." Now he glares at me. "What really happened?"

There's no sense arguing. "I let Junkyard take a knee. We got ambushed."

"Her, and the rest of your squad."

"Not my squad," I insist.

Stalker goes back to typing. "Yeah, man. Keep telling yourself that."

I walk away and try not to think about it. That means finding a way to keep myself occupied. I decide to let Shipwreck fills me in on the details. Turns out, we are at an assembly area north of Narathiwat. Stalker and a Thai convoy showed up shortly after we ditched the Stun and moved us. I was unconscious throughout, to the point that I didn't even wake up when they gave me an IV. Torpedo is there, along with Dial-Tone and Outback. I don't see Flint. Or Low-Light, for that matter. No surprise, though. Nobody ever sees Low-Light. What I do see, moving along the road below us, is a convoy of T-84 tanks and BTRs. The Thai Army appears to have lost patience with the situation.

We wake up Chuckles and gather around the A.W.E. Stalker is still operating the computer. The JBC-P is the latest version of what we call our 'Blue Force Tracker.' It includes GPS identification of friendly transmitters, a digital map, messaging, and the ability to build and transmit map overlays. Stalker has built a series of NAIs: The dam, the resort, the island, and the OP site. I see friendly units marked with blue squares, while enemy forces are red diamonds. I have never been great with military symbology, but I get the general idea. It's not good. My team and I have been completely focused on the Tasik Durbaraja region. Our information looks very complete. There are lots of little diamonds depicting enemy infantry, SAM sites, and the Terror Drome.

The problem is the regions to the left and right. Cobra forces have effectively cut the peninsula in half. I see armor, artillery, aviation assets, and all multiple flavors of infantry. They have what amounts to a brigade-sized element in play. That may not sound like much, but they are dug into strategic urban areas, mountainous terrain, and key pieces of infrastructure. Worse yet, Cobra's technology equals or exceeds our own. The question is not whether we can win, but how many people we will lose doing it.

Stalker outlines the scheme of maneuver. "Thai and Malaysian forces have established blocking positions on both side of the border. They've effectively cut all roads and rivers into the area. The Flagg is moving into position from the west. The plan is to bring in the Phantom to knock out radar installations and the Terror Dromes, followed by Conquests and Storm Eagles to strike SAM sites. Once that's done, we have a brigade from the 25th and the 101st preparing to air assault into the region.

"Our problem is the dam. You already know the reservoir is sitting above an inhabited area. If they destroy it, they can flood the region and kill thousands. But the other problem is that the entire Tasik Durbaraja area is made of limestone. You saw all those karst formations, right? The ground is unstable. It requires constant maintenance just to keep the dam upright. And we haven't seen any evidence that Cobra knows, or cares, about keeping it in good repair."

I can see where this is going. "And so the host nation is running out of patience."

"Exactly. Neither side wants to see the dam destroyed. The reservoir is going to be key terrain. Maybe the linchpin of the entire operation. We can use conventional assets to attack Cobra in the other areas, but we have to infiltrate and secure the dam immediately. Controlling the reservoir sets the conditions for the rest of the operation to begin."

"And so we're just forgetting about Doctor Burke?"

Stalker gives me a cold stare. "What progress have you made in tracking him down?"

"Almost none. We got a lead on Brahamiah, but we don't know where he is now. He was doing some kind of medical treatments on the villagers."

"Does that have anything to do with your Ghost Vipers?"

"Is that what we're calling them now?" I ask. "Works for me. But no. I have no idea. That's so far outside my wheelhouse, I couldn't say one way or another. Except..." I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. "Except that the active camouflage is like a layer of skin. And I saw a Viper lose control of his camo when Junkyard bit him. I think it's somehow grafted onto their bodies. Brahamiah gave a girl some skin grafts, that would probably have something to do with it. It might be why they wanted Burke... He was doing research on similar subject, right?"

"You're asking me?" Stalker says with a grin. "Sounds like typical Cobra. But the point is, Burke is now a secondary objective. And it looks like the only way we're going to find him is to just invade the whole place anyway."

Chuckles drums his fingers on the dashboard. "Okay," he finally says. "So we move in on foot and seize the dam?"

"That's the plan. But I haven't been there. What I need from you is the best way to get inside."

"On foot? Through the jungle that's infested with Ghost Vipers and crocodiles and God knows what else? The same jungle that ate us up and spit us out last time we tried?"

"Yes," Stalker says. "You understand completely."

We move through the rest of the planning process, which includes our signal, coordinating instructions, and contingencies for use of fires. Both Thai and Malaysian armies use a variety of 105mm artillery pieces, including American-made M109s. We will have the ability to call for fire on this mission, which is an advantage but not a magic bullet. Indiscriminate use of fires runs the risk of damaging infrastructure the host nations would really prefer to retain, not to mention the possibility of unexpected civilians on the battlefield. There's also the matter of our problematic communications in the reservoir itself. The best option here is to use radios for local communications and resort to satellite phones for calling to the rear.

It all looks good on paper, but we have yet to confront the biggest problem of all: How we expect to get in there.

"Alright," Stalker says, pointing at the OP on our map. "Tell me about Fasha Tan."

I take a deep breath. "She's an amateur. She talks a good game, I guess, but she got in over her head. Now all her soldiers are dead, and she's sitting on a mountain up there waiting for us to come rescue her."

"Is she reliable?"

"At this point? I don't even know. But she knows the area. My recommendation is that we take the boats around the other side of the mountain from Wat Phra Gniap, then pick her up from the OP. From there, we can skirt the east edge of the reservoir and make it to the dam. Once we recon the dam, we can decide whether we need to clear it or just start calling in fire on the AA positions."

"No," Chuckles says. "Absolutely not. We don't need Fasha Tan. She hasn't done anything for us."

"She's an expert on the area. We need her help."

"Because we need her?" he snaps. "Or because you feel guilty?"

I have to resist the urge to feed him his front two teeth. Instead, I speak as slowly and clearly as possible. "Because we need her."

Chuckles shakes his head and walks away, muttering insults under his breath.

"Let him go," Stalker says. "We'll go with your plan. But the water is going to be a problem." The reservoir is not a pond. It is a man-made lake created by flooding a mountain. There are at least six draws branching off from the main body of water. On the map it looks like some kind of octopus. Moving on foot requires us to either divert around the branches or try to cross them by swimming. There are some bridges, but there's no doubt these will be defended by Cobra.

Torpedo is the first to speak up. "We can cross them. I can give you some inflatable swim bladders to help cross." Bringing full-sized dive equipment for each soldier is a non-starter. I doubt we would be able to find enough kits on short notice, and marching up and down the mountains is hard enough without trying to carry our own scuba gear.

There are no further objections. All that's left is to get ready.

I practically peel my sweat stained uniform off my body. The only way to wash out here is by pouring a canteen over my head and smearing myself with hand sanitizer. I'm almost past the point of caring, except for my feet. Any injury or infection in my feet can take me out of action. The bandages on my finger need replacing, too. I can't remember the last time I shaved, but that will have to wait. Stalker has brought us some fresh clothes. The feeling of putting on a brand-new pair of socks is truly magical, especially when your feet are being ground into hamburger. I've got my clothes halfway on when Torpedo catches me lost in thought.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "Yeah, I'm good." The truth is that my brain can't decide if it wants to be in overdrive or shut down completely.

The A.W.E. has a toughbox in the back with our replacement kit. First up is a new type of over-shirt with sewn-in Kevlar panels. The armored layers cover the shoulders, upper arms, and groin. The torso is made of a thin, breathable fabric. I cover this with a plate carrier. My last wrist computer got eaten by a crocodile, so I unwrap a new one and a new armored sleeve along with it. The last new toy is a helmet that includes a full-face shield and goggles. It looks like a paintball mask mated to a helmet. The fit is snug, but it works. I just hope it doesn't fog up.

Today's firearm is a brand-new SCAR in that coyote-brown color. This particulate model comes with an extremely short barrel intended for close-quarters combat. Visibility in the jungle is never more than seventy-five to one hundred meters, so I should be fine. It includes a sloping forward grip that I can easily grasp despite my broken finger. Given that the weapon is new, I have to zero it from scratch. I do this by putting a piece of tape on a tree, pacing off twenty-five meters, and then dialing my shots in. Once I've done the iron sights, I mount my optic. Instead of an ACOG, I'm using the thermal scope I purloined off the Mars-brand submachine gun last night. The Picatinny rail system is an industry-wide standard, so it fits easily. Once I've dialed it in, I'm all set.

The other Joes are carrying similar gear. The infiltration team will include myself, Junkyard, Stalker, Chuckles, and Outback. Dial-Tone, Flint, and Low-Light will stay behind with the A.W.E. to act as our C2. If I were in charge, I would have traded Low-Light for Chuckles. But this is Stalker's show, now. I suspect he is leaving Low-Light behind in the event some Ghost Vipers try to launch a raid or a spoiling attack. Aziz... I don't know where he will end up, actually. The last I see him, he is still asleep. We will be gone by the time he wakes up. Maybe it's better this way.

Junkyard gets his new vest. This model is identical to the old one, with its carrying handle and mast-mounted camera. I make sure to pack a saline bag and some single-use ice packs in his side pockets. I won't risk sending him in without the vest, but neither can I afford to see him overheat. The cut on his paw is barely closed. He recoils when I try to touch it. I already know this is going to be hard for him, and I hate myself for putting him through it.

"I'm sorry, boy," I whisper as I scratch his neck. "I'm sorry for bringing you into this."

He doesn't know what I'm saying. He just licks my face. He can't make the mental connection to realize I'm the one responsible for his pain. I hate myself. But I don't let it show.

 **19**

We infiltrate in the rain. The afternoon brings dark red skies and even darker storm clouds. They bring flashes of lightning and unbelievable buckets of rain. It seems to come in waves, alternating between a pleasant drizzle and a torrential downpour. Bolts of lightning leap from cloud to cloud. It never truly starts or stops. The sky is just lit with this constant staccato crackle of light and sound, as if God is playing with a string of firecrackers. We are soaked to the bone before we even step off from the assembly area. It doesn't matter. We are out of time.

Torpedo and Shipwreck guide us on their long-tail until we're just north of Wat Phra Gniap. I'm surprised Cobra doesn't have guards watching the river approaches. Maybe they're as miserable as we are and are hiding in their tents somewhere, figuring that nobody would be crazy enough to move in this weather. There's another way it works to our advantage. The storm makes it too dangerous to fly. The Rattler might be able to handle it, given that it is based on an A-10, but helicopters cannot. Lightweight drone aircraft are even more delicate than the helicopters. All we have to do is stay alive.

We jump into the river and claw our way onto the bank. I have to use my good hand to grasp at vines and roots until I can pull myself up. Junkyard treads water until I can grab him by his carrying handle and pull him ashore. Outback needs help, too. He is carrying the over-sized 240, which is normally considered a crew-served weapon. Even in its modified short-barrel configuration and titanium receiver, it still clocks in at 22.3 pounds before ammunition.

The team moves out in a diamond formation. I lead the way with Junkyard. Chuckles is on my right, and Stalker on my left. Normally the team leader would position himself in the middle or rear of the formation, but we agree that it is best for Outback to play short-stop with his squad automatic. He takes up the rear so that he can shift to support in any direction. Movement is slow. I sent Junkyard ahead to scout and then follow behind. We pause every fifty meters or so. I hesitate to use my thermal scope. It would be a shame to run out the batteries before we actually make contact. And yet, neither can I afford to let them ambush us again. I soon settle into a rhythm of making short halts every ten minutes or so to scan the area, just in case someone is following us.

Every hour we stop to try to raise Fasha Tan on the radio. I don't have much hope the first time we try it. If we couldn't transmit from Wat Phra Gniap, I don't expect our man-pack radios will do any better. But as we get closer, we should be able to pick her up. We fail. I start to get nervous. Maybe she's given up. Maybe she ran out of battery. Maybe she's dead. For some reason, I start to think about Khadija, and Bombstrike, and all the other people we've left behind on this mountain. I also have to wonder about the living. I don't know what happened to any of the refugees after we abandoned the temple. They could be dead, for all we know.

It is not really cold, but hypothermia will be a concern nonetheless. Most people don't realize how easy it is to die when your clothes are drenched, even in mild weather. Water crushes between my toes with every step. We have to keep moving just to stay warm. Everything is slick. Muddy soil falls out from under my foot with every step. It doesn't take long before we become numb all over and simply resign ourselves to our suffering. But discomfort aside, the rain has a more insidious effect on us. It drains our strength and saps our will. We quickly become fatigued, and that makes us inattentive. It takes so much effort just to make it up the hill that we have little energy left for watching our surroundings. It's all I can do to pay attention to Junkyard. He is obviously limping on his injured paw. When I stop and check, the wound is re-opening. I wish I could take him away from all this. But we can't. He has to soldier on.

Three times I see him alert. The first three times I call a halt, and we all drop to the ground with weapons pointed outwards. I scan the jungle with my thermals but see nothing. We are approaching midnight when he signals for the fourth time, pointing somewhere to my three o'clock. I expect another false alarm – but that's the fatigue talking. It plays games with your mind drives you to complacency. When I turn on my thermals, I see them. A group of Ghost Vipers, weapons ready, moves through the jungle not forty meters away. In the darkness, they are completely invisible to the naked eye. Whoever they pick for these guys, they know how to move. I watch them take careful steps through the jungle, avoiding twigs and thorn-bushes. Even when I know they are right in front of me I can't hear them. The sounds of the rain and the thunder drown out their footsteps.

I count five. We could take them now. It would be easy. But we don't. Instead we go prone and let them pass us by. We keep our weapons ready, just to be sure. If one of them so much as glances at me, I'll let him have it. But killing them now would accomplish little. Even in the best-case scenario, Cobra realizes they have a patrol down and they dispatch twice as many bad guys to come looking for us. I have to keep in mind that whacking these losers isn't actually my mission. It would be fun, and they have it coming, but that's not what we're here to do.

They move on, and so do we.

It's close to 0030 hours by the time we reach the saddle and the OP. I point out the crack in the ground to Stalker, and we spread out to secure it. The place is dark and quiet, which I suppose is how it's supposed to be. But that doesn't make me feel any better. It's been twenty-four hours since we last spoke to her. I move to the edge of the cave and look down. There is no light at all. I crack and new chemlight and drop it down. The splash comes much earlier than I expected. That's not good.

"Hello?" I hear her call.

"Fasha," I whisper, as loud as I dare. "It's us. Are you alright?"

"Yes," she says. "Yes, I'm okay. But I can't get out. The rain has screwed everything up."

I can see what she means. There is a small chunk of exposed soil where I expect a rock fell. Everything is slick, and there's enough rainwater pouring into the hole to make a small river. Stalker rigs a length of rope and secures it to a tree. I tie myself a Swiss seat. Junkyard whines, but I tell him to stay behind. The descent is dangerous. I don't actually 'bound,' but rather walk myself backwards with my brake hand tight against my back. In a matter of seconds, I'm standing on a pile of shattered rock at the bottom of the pit.

"Fasha?" I ask again.

"Right here," she says, as she plucks the chemlight out of the water. Fasha Tan's features were always sharp, but in the green light she looks like a corpse. Her cheeks are sunken. Wet hair clings to her face. Her eyes look black and colorless. I wonder how long it's been since she was able to eat. She keeps her AK-47 cradled in her too-slender arms. Days-old camo paint has disintegrated to the point that it has stopped looking like camouflage and instead just looks like filth. And she can't stop shivering. "I didn't think you were coming."

"Are you sure you're alright?" I ask. I can hear her teeth chattering.

"I said, 'yes,'" she insists. "I just need to get out of this place. It's so cold."

"I bet. Here, let me link you up."

"Please don't," Fasha says. I reach out for her, but she slaps at my hand. "Don't touch me!" She takes a few steps back and sits down, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"We've got to keep moving," I say.

"No. I'm done. This is it. I can't do this anymore," she shakes her head as if bewildered by her situation. "I never thought it would be like this. I've screwed it all up. And everyone is dead! They're all dead, and it's all my fault! I thought I could do this, but I can't."

I don't say anything, at first. I just let her sit for a moment. Then I sit on the rock across from her, and remove my helmet. Raindrops fall on my shoulders. I don't know if she expects me to yell at her, or hit her, or leave her to die, or what. But I don't do any of those things. I just nod and say, "It's okay."

Fasha looks at me from beneath a tangle of dripping-wet hair.

"We got beat. It sucks. I know. But we've got to keep fighting. And look... I don't know what you expected from this. I don't know what you wanted to achieve. But there are still people counting on you to get this right. And there's still a lot of work to be done."

For a long time she doesn't say anything. Then I watch her relax. She doesn't even shiver anymore. I don't know if she's going hypothermic on me, or if she's hit some kind of event horizon of resignation.

"I just wanted to be someone important," she says.

"Yeah. I can understand that. It's like my wife... I kept going off doing Army stuff and she stayed home with the kids. She always said that she never got to have an adventure. Never got to do anything. She felt like she gave it all up for me. And she started to resent me for it. I haven't talked to her in three years. So I get it. And you know what, it's okay. Because you're on the right side. You're one of the good guys. And I know you're trying. Everyone knows you're trying."

There's another long pause, before she asks, "Where is Bombstrike?"

I don't feel like lying. I tell her the truth. Then I watch the emotions hit her. Confusion. Guilt. Anger. Shame. They parade across her face one after another until all she can do is bury her face in her hands and weep. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too. But I'm going to keep going. And I'm going to fix it." I stand up and ready my rifle. "This isn't Little League anymore. You're playing in the Majors. And it's probably going to get worse before it gets better. But you can come with us if you want. We need you."

She sniffles, a little, and takes a deep breath. "You've done this a long time. Is it... Is it worth it?"

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I think so. We'll find out."

"Alright," Fasha says. "Okay. I'll try."

I'm about to say something, but that's the moment that I hear Junkyard bark. My heart skips a beat. Junykard is trained not to bark. At least, not if you pay attention to him. The only reason he would make a sound is if he signaled an intruder and nobody noticed... Which means the bad guys must be right on top of us. I immediately hear Outback let loose a long burst from his 240. Stalker starts shouting, and I hear the chest-shaking thump of a grenade. This is not good. I try to run to the rope with the futile expectation I can do something helpful. Instead, Stalker leans over the edge.

"We're surrounded," he shouts. "Don't come up!" I see him long bursts of gunfire into the forest. And in return, we hear the rattling sound of Cobra submachine guns. Hot pieces of brass fall down the hole and strike me in the face.

"Wait," Fasha shouts. "There's another way out. It's maybe a hundred meters through the cave. Come down!"

"They'll be trapped," I say.

"We're already trapped!"

I don't have time to argue. Someone up top throws another hand grenade. I don't know who they were aiming for, but they miss and the grenade falls directly down the cave mouth. I watch it strike rocks and tumble in some kind of weird slow-motion horror. The grenade lands not two feet in front of me. Fasha doesn't react fast enough. She just leaps backwards, hoping to find some kind of cover. All I can do is kick it into the water. The explosion knocks me flat on my butt. For a moment I think I've gotten lucky. The water absorbs enough of the blast to keep me from picking fragmentation out of my face. But it also shakes loose a piece of rock. I have to shield my face as pieces of dirt and stone come tumbling down. Stalker loses his footing and falls. It's all he can do to hang on to the rope while the cave mouth collapses beneath him.

I curse out loud, and make a decision.

"Get down here! Now!"

Chuckles is next. He holds Junkyard in one hand and the rope in the other. The line is wet and slippery, and he doesn't have time to tie off. He comes down to fast and lands hard on his knee. Junykard goes tumbling and cries out as he slips into the water. Outback expends the last of his belt and then drops down. He tries to keep one end wrapped around his leg to slow his descent. Blood is already dripping from his left arm. We can't tell how bad he's hit. Before he even hits the ground, the rest of us are spraying gunfire at the cave mouth. There's really no hope we could hit anyone... We just want to make them think twice about trying to follow.

"Where now?" Stalker asks.

Fasha points into the darkness. We switch on flashlights and NODs, and start moving to the back of the cave. I'm surprised at how large it is. It's amazing the entire place doesn't come crashing down on our heads. There's a surprising amount of water here. We have to keep to a small trail on the left side of the cavern to avoid falling in. Fasha leads the way, while Stalker takes up the rear. Every few seconds he sends a burst of gunfire at the cave mouth, in the hope of keeping them suppressed.

We stumble down a slope and land in knee-deep water. Fasha keeps going. It's just then that I realize this is more than a crack in the ground. We are inside some kind of sacred grotto. The ceiling must be six meters high. Bulbous limestone stalagmites reach towards the surface. We are confronted by the subterranean statue of a Hindu God. It sits in an alcove beneath a great stone arch. Strange shapes and Vedic monsters decorate the walls. Some of them are crisp and new. Some are buried under deposits of lime and calcium. I can't even guess how many centuries old this place must be. Centuries, surely. A millennium, perhaps.

"What is this?" Chuckles asks, staring at it with wide-eyed amazement. Then he hears a bullet ricochet off the stone walls.

We both turn and spray gunfire into the darkness. Stalker shouts at us to turn out the lights. They resort to NODs, which are next to useless in the cave's total darkness. The only light left to us comes from my thermal scope's display and the chemlight in Fasha's hand. I watch a bright white shape moving in the darkness, and I give him a burst of five-five-six. The Viper goes down screaming. His buddies drag him back into cover. We keep shooting, while Outback reloads, but I doubt we hit anything. The sound of our gunfire leaves my ears ringing.

"Gun up," Outback whispers. He sets the bipod on a rock.

"I thought you said we could get out of here," Stalker says.

"The water's too high," Fasha explains. "There used to be a staircase right here... But it's flooded!"

"Does that mean we're stuck?" Chuckles says. He fires a burst in their general direction, just to keep them on their toes. "Because it looks like we're stuck."

"It's not far. We can swim."

"No, we can't," I say.

"We have to."

Someone in the darkness starts shooting. A bullet glances off Outback's 240 and ricochets off his plate carrier. A second round skips of a rock and bites Stalker in the leg. He pretends he doesn't notice. The bullet is buried in his thigh. Not deep, but enough to make it weep dark red blood. Outback lets loose with long bursts of suppressive fire.

"We can't stay here," Stalker says. He snaps another chemlight and gives it a shake. We have to try."

"Junkyard can't swim!" I shout. "He's not trained for that."

"We have no choice!"

As if to punctuate his insistence, a bullet whip-snaps past my head and defaces the statute behind us. Fasha Tan looks me dead in the eye and squeezes my hand. "I'm sorry," she whispers. And then she dives into the water.

 **20**

"Come on, Junk," I say. There is no way Junkyard will follow me underwater. Not willingly, anyway. I never trained him for this. I kneel down and let Stalker secure him to my back with a pair of built-in snaps. There was never much chance that I could swim underwater with the weight of my weapon and kit. Adding sixty pounds of dog to my back makes it completely impossible. Fortunately, Torpedo has provided us a fix for this. I twist the knob on my chest and compressed air inflates swim bladders on both sides of my plate carrier.

"Are you ready for this?" I ask. Junkyard doesn't reply. He just pants in my ear. I doubt he realizes what is coming. We are going to be relying on what's called the Mammalian Diving Reflex. There is actually a nerve in your face that alerts your body to stop breathing when you are submerged. It also automatically lowers your heart rate and constricts your blood vessels, so as to use less oxygen. Without any way to tell him to hold his breath, I just have to hope his body can figure it out for him.

And to be clear, what we are about to do is tantamount to suicide. We are essentially about to do a breath-hold cave dive, in the sense that we have no free surface and no scuba equipment. Add to that the fact that we have little light and no real concept of how far we have to travel. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention: All Cobra has to do is drop a single grenade into the water and the shock wave will kill us all. This means we have to be out of the water before they figure out where we have gone.

"What are you waiting for?" Chuckles asks.

The water is cold. Brutally, bitterly cold. It shocks the body and makes me want to get out as fast as possible. My instinct is to kick my way back to the surface and take a deep breath, but I can't. I have to get as much range out of this dive as possible. Junkyard is squirming and kicking on my back. He doesn't understand what is happening, and he is starting to panic. I have to force myself to open my eyes and look for the dim glow of Fasha's chemlight ahead of me. It's really the only way I have to orient myself. In the darkness I have no concept of what direction is forward or back. The swim bladders on my sides are the only way I even know which direction is up or down.

My broken finger strikes a rock and I almost cry out in pain. Instead, I have to clutch it against my chest and use my good hand to grasp at the stones. I am half-swimming, half-dragging myself through the passage. It is oppressively tight. Fasha is kicking up silt ahead of me. The water both mutes and magnifies; Outback's gunfire becomes a dull chattering sound, but I can clearly hear the empty brass landing in the water and striking off stones. It's like being in a frozen tomb.

I run out of air far too early. My lungs start to burn. I can feel my diaphragm twitching. It wants to take a breath, and I have to fight it. Then I float too close to the surface and I feel my helmet strike stone. Junkyard kicks again. I'm basically grinding him against the ceiling without realizing it. I can feel the top of the stone and I try to take a breath. There's barely a centimeter of air-space between the surface of the water and the ceiling of the cave. The face mask traps the water against my mouth when I try to breathe. I cough, rip my helmet off, and let it drop. Then I try to roll my shoulder up in the hopes that Junkyard can take a turn to breathe. Instead he panics and kicks again, shoving us down into the water. I roll, swimming inverted, and I gun into a rock.

Now it's my turn to panic. I've completely lost track of which way I'm swimming. Junkyard is trashing on my back. I'm afraid he'll hurt himself. I spin again, losing control of myself in the water. My body is practically screaming for air. Then I feel someone blunder into me. It's Stalker, although I can barely see him even with the chemlight on his chest. He grabs me by the vest and pulls me with him. I grope at the water and I kick the rocks under me, desperately trying anything that might propel me somewhere.

Then I finally break the surface of the water and breathe real air. I'm trying to gasp for air and cough up water at the same time. My body is shivering out of control. Fingertips grasp at bare stone. Feet scrape at the wall, looking for some kind of toe-hold. Fasha Tan is above me. She grabs onto the handle on the back of my vest and pulls us up. I don't know how much she can really help. She must weight a hundred pounds, soaking wet. But however we do it, we drag ourselves out of the water and onto the stone.

For a moment I just lay there on my hands and knees, gasping for air and thankful just do be alive.

"Mutt?" Someone asks. "Mutt?"

I come back my senses and look up. Stalker is helping Chuckles out of the water. Outback comes next. He's alive, but lacking his machine gun and rucksack. I can only expect they are at the bottom of the water.

"Come on!" Fasha says, tugging on my shirt. I need her help to stand up. I'm not just exhausted, but I've still got sixty pounds of dog on my back. It's just then that I realize how calm Junkyard is.

"Get back," Stalker says, waving at us. "Frag out." He pulls the pin on a grenade and drops it in the pool. The explosion is a muffled thump that sends water splashing into the air. We will never know if he actually killed anybody. Either way, the Vipers don't follow us and that's what matters.

"This is it," Fasha explains. She points at a crack in the cave above us. I can't see much, but when the lightning flashes I can make out the outline of the cave walls. The wind makes a whistling sound with every gust. We crawl up a pile of shattered stones. It is slick and wet and chaotic. I feel like I'm half-blind, using both hands to pull myself up by feel alone. I have to push as hard as I can just to make it to the top. Then I feel the wind and the rain hitting my face, and I know that I'm free. We made it. Junkyard-

Oh, God. Junkyard.

I've killed my dog.

"Junk?" I ask, as I break the snaps and drop him to the ground. "Junk?"

He doesn't respond. He doesn't breathe. He's just a limp sack of fur and flesh.

I've killed my dog.

"Junk!" I shout, grabbing him by the waist and lifting. "Come on, boy. Come on!" I try to invert his body and shake him the best I can. The goal is to drain the fluids from his lungs, but there's no way to tell whether the water is dripping from his muzzle or just running off his fur. Then I tear off the vest and lay him on his side. I try pressing my hand against the side of his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat. Nothing.

I've killed my dog.

The panic is taking over now. I want to scream, but I can't. My boy needs me.

"Alright," say to myself. "Alright. Here we go. Focus."

I place both hands over his ribs and shove. Water immediately spurts from Junk's mouth. I have to grab his nose and pull his head back, to straight out the airway. Then I shove again. And again. I keep shoving his rib cage until I could to twenty. Then comes the respiration. I kneel down close to his face and put my mouth entirely over his nose. I give him one good puff and watch his chest rise and fall. At least the air is getting through. Then I go back to rib compression.

Nothing happens. I don't give up. I'm not aware of the rain, or the lightning. I don't realize my team is standing in a circle, watching me. I don't even know how long I keep trying. One minute? Two? Desperation takes over. I can't think about anything else. I can't go on without him.

"Mutt?" Stalker asks.

I ignore him and keep pushing. Push twenty seconds. Stop. Breathe twice. Push twenty seconds. Stop.

"Mutt?"

"Got lost," I mumble, and keep pushing.

Chuckles shakes his head. "He cares more about that dog than he cared about Bombstrike."

"I said get lost!" I snap, and keep pushing.

"We have to move," Outback says. "We can't stay here."

"Then go without me!" I give Junkyard two more rescue breaths. Then I keep pushing. I push so hard that I can feel his ribs cracking beneath my hands.

"Mutt!" Stalker shouts in my face.

I break. I scream in anger and frustration. I bury my face in his wet fur and cry like a lost child.

"No," I sob. "Please, no. He's all I have left."

Oh God, I've killed my dog.

They let me cry. I feel ashamed. I feel stupid. I feel like blowing my brains out. I pull him close to my chest and rest his head on my shoulder, and I cry and cry and cry. And if I'm honest, I'm not just crying for him. This is ten years worth of grief. Grief for my marriage. The kids I never see. The last dog I had. Bombstrike. Everyone I ever snapped at. Everyone I ever left behind or let down. The kid from New Jersey who was such a piece of crap he couldn't get along with anyone but his stupid pet dog. I cry.

"We have to move," Fasha Tan says.

"I killed my dog," I say. "He's all I had left."

"I know," she says. Lightning flickers above our heads. Thunder booms like distant cannon. "I know." Then she embraces me, and I cry on her shoulder. And I feel stupid. I feel stupid because I was the one giving her the pep talk not five minutes ago. And now I'm the one crying on her shoulder. Life is funny that way. Stupid. But funny.

And that's when I relax.

"It's okay," Fasha says. She smiles at me, just a little. Raindrops run down her mocha skin and drip off the sharp angles of her face. "You've got us."

I'm limp. I'm exhausted. My head rolls back and rests on a rock wall. Junkyard rests on my lap.

Stalker slaps his hand on my shoulder as I wipe the tears out of my eyes.

"Come on, Joe," he says. "Now we're gonna start winning."


	5. Chapter 5

**21**

I leave Junkyard behind.

We're five now: Myself, Stalker, Outback, Fasha Tan, and Chuckles. I've still got my SCAR. I break it open to let the water drain. My hands are shaking. My fingers are so cold that they sting every time I touch my weapon. Fasha Tan has her AK, but she has run out ammo. Outback abandoned his machine gun. Now all he has is a pistol. But that's okay. We'll figure it out. We always do.

We take a moment to patch up Outback and Chuckles. Both of them have very superficial wounds. My heart feels like a lead weight as I walk away from the cave. But I don't look back. I've hit my limit for grief today. Now I have to focus on what comes ahead. I open a face-paint compact as I walk. I've discarded my mask and now I have to camouflage my face. There's no rhyme or reason to it, anymore. I just rub my fingers in random colors and smear it the best I can. When I'm done, I pass it back to Fasha so she can camo up as well.

"Where as we headed?" she asks.

"The dam," Stalker says. "We're going to do a recon on it, and then make a game plan. If we can take it, we will. Otherwise, we'll dial up Flint and give him a FRAGO."

"I haven't seen much activity on the dam," Fasha says. "But I guess the power station is on the south side, isn't it? Anyway, there's something going on at the resort, over there to the west. I've been seeing a lot of lights and movement there. A helicopter landed once, and I see vehicles driving between the resort and the dam."

She's right. Even now, when it's well past midnight, we can see lights on at the resort. The main building is a sort of rounded glass structure. It sits on the west ridge line, looking like some kind of flying saucer about to take off. From here we can see whole floors are lit up. Maybe it's some kind of all-hours TOC. Or maybe they just like to party. Either way, I agree it's something we should take a look at... If only to confirm whether we should drop rounds on it.

"You want to take a look?" Stalker asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I want to kill every one of them." Then I walk off into the jungle.

We cross a river branch easily. It's a very shallow draw, and the water only comes up to our chests. The water is stagnant enough that there is no current. More than once I feel something touch my leg. I can't be sure if it's a branch, or a vine, or some kind of eel. But I'm also past the point of caring. There is a narrow bridge overhead. We avoid it, for fear that Cobra would have eyes on it. The rain has all but stopped now, and the lightning with it. Instead we just get this dull gray patchwork of clouds beneath a bright half-moon.

I switch on my thermal scope. It looks like Cobra did a good job of waterproofing. Without Junkyard, we are helpless against their Ghost Vipers. The NODs are only marginally useful. I have to leave the scope turned on, which will inevitably drain the battery. I wish I could just pop in new double-A's. Unfortunately, Cobra designed these things with some kind of proprietary lithium thing, probably to prevent this exact scenario. I just hope it will last us until we hit the resort. The movement is two miles through dense jungle. Would it be too much to ask that Cobra put the bulk of their patrols on the outskirts of the AO? Probably.

We move uphill, and find the terrain is significantly rockier. Before long we are climbing vertically on karst formations. This is not ideal in any sense of the word. I wince every time I have to use my bad hand. We are exposed for two long as we move from one plateau to the next. But I don't know that there are any better options. Maybe the slope would be gentler if we circled to the other side of the hill, but I don't want to count on that. It takes us almost an hour to move into a position where we can parallel the road and then look down on the building from a vantage point to the north.

Stalker low-crawls from the wood-line to a rocky perch, and examines it with his binoculars. We are looking at a dish-shaped building covered in stainless steel. It's all very modern. Very art deco. Easily the newest building I've seen since we left Bangkok. This branches off into a sort of pavilion and then an amphitheater. To the west, slightly downhill, is a network of the usual tourist crap: Hotel rooms, hot tubs, tennis courts, and the rest. If I was Cobra, this is the kind of place I would invade. I mean, one time I spent a summer in Saddam's Falcon Palace in southwest Baghdad. It was nice, but it has nothing on this place.

It also looks like Fasha was right. Cobra is using the parking lot as an ad-hoc motor pool. I count three Stuns, a Stinger truck, and even a Rage. The Rage is a nasty piece of work. It's an extremely low-profile armored car intended for use as a tank-hunter. The chassis is less than six feet tall and the driver has to recline behind an extremely low-angle glacis. The turret packs a pair of 30mm auto-cannon and anti-armor missiles. The closest thing I can compare it to is something like a BTR-40 mated to a Bradley's turret.

There doesn't appear to much security here. The whole thing is ringed by a metal fence. A pair of Troopers watch the front doors, while another pair patrols the perimeter. These guys don't worry me so much. They're just the black-mask thugs Cobra uses as cannon fodder and rear echelon troops; Losers who think graduating to Viper is a long-term career aspiration. Our first impulse is to mark it for arty and move on, and we might do just that except for the array of antennas on top of the building.

If you ever want to know how important somebody is, count the number of antennas. That tells you how many radio nets they expect to talk on simultaneously. A Company-level CP might only need two: One for the Company internal net and one to talk to Battalion. A Battalion needs to be able to talk to four or five subordinate companies at once. Above that, we start adding MEDEVAC, arty, and other specialized functions. I could four, which puts whatever this is in the Battalion echelon.

"Who do you think they're talking to?" Fasha asks.

"SAM sites, probably," Stalker guesses. "A second net for patrols and infantry. Third for higher headquarters. No telling, really. I'm surprised they aren't using a Trojan or something."

"They could be running off civilian internet," Chuckles says. "I bet that place has free Wi-Fi."

Stalker shakes his head. "That's the first thing the host nation would cut. Maybe internally. There must be a transmitter somewhere else."

We duck when a car comes rolling up from the south. It's not a Cobra vehicle. Looks more like one of those million-dollar luxury supercars. Probably confiscated from a 'guest.' That's the second thing that happens when somebody gets invaded. After securing living facilities, the high-and-mighty start looking for cars so they don't have to roll in uncomfortable tactical vehicles. And look who it is.

Doctor David Brahamiah. He parks the car and gets out alone. There is no bodyguard, and anybody driving one of those cars isn't going to want a personal driver. He is wearing a snow-white suit that must be visible from space. In his left hand he carries a cane even though I don't see him limp. It's as though he spent the afternoon watching spy movies and then decided this is what a supervillian is supposed to look like. We watch him smoke a cigarette before he goes inside. The Troopers stand at attention when he walks past. No, wait... Scratch that. They stand up because their boss is waiting for him.

"Who is that?" Fasha asks.

"Copperhead," Stalker mutters.

We're looking at Cobra's brown-water naval commander and jungle warfare expert. Figures that we'd find him here. Like the late Croc Master, he is one of the Commander's hand-picked high-ranking mercenaries. Cobra's exact hierarchy is nebulous and ill-defined. Our best guess is that they operate in purpose-tailored cells that cluster around senior leaders like this one. These guys, in turn, fall below the ones I call the 'True Believers.' Those would be the cult leaders like Destroy and the Commander. He wears thick leggings and a black vest. It's hard to tell from this distance, but his arms look as though they're covered in tattoos. More likely, he's wearing whatever active camouflage skin the Ghost Vipers are using.

We can't hear what they are talking about, but he's not happy with Brahamiah. They argue for a moment and Copperhead points to the north. I'll take a wild guess that he knows we're in the AO, and he's blaming Brahamiah for letting us get away.

"We can take them right now," I say. My finger is resting on the trigger. Selector lever is on 'Burst.' I could kill all four of them right now. And I want to.

"Not yet," Stalker says. "We don't have a good headcount. I don't want them to lock that place down until we know what they're up to. I vote that we bring back Brahamiah. Alive, if possible."

"You're joking, right?" Outback asks. He should know better.

"If you want to stay behind, you can."

"The heck with that," Outback says. Everyone remembers what happened last time Stalker told him to stay behind.

"Mutt," Stalker continues. "Am I missing anything?"

I scan the area with my thermal scope. There's nothing – or rather, nobody – unaccounted for.

"That's it," I say, and we start crawling backwards into the tree line.

Our plan looks something like this: We swing left and keep inside the trees until we're within twenty meters of the building. Then we sprint across the open grass and hurdle the fence. Once we're inside the perimeter we ambush the two sets of guards and get some weapons for Outback and Fasha Tan. Then we breach the building itself and kill our way through until we can kidnap Brahamiah. Security inside the compound is a giant question mark. Best case scenario, the resort bought cheap cameras and nobody bothers watching them. Worst case, the whole place is wired with built-in motion detectors and automated gun turrets that kill us all.

Hey, I never said it was a good plan.

We dial up Flint and ask him to pre-register some artillery on their motor pool. We also ask them to target both bridges. Whichever one we don't use for exfiltration will probably get blown. Hopefully we can steal a Stinger or something before we blow the whole place to Hell. And if we don't make it out, they'll drop the hammer anyway. This is one piece of real estate the Malaysians probably aren't going to get back.

The first half of our plan goes well. We wait for the perimeter guards to pass us by. Outback low-crawls through the bushes and then sprints across the grass. He drops to his knees and gets ready to boost the next man. In this case, it's Fasha Tan. She's the smallest and the lightest, and she practically catapults over the fence. She surprises me. Watching her move is like watching a gymnast. I've never actually seen someone try that parkour nonsense, but she makes it look effortless. She runs to the corner of the building and pulls security with her handgun.

Stalker, Chuckles, and I each follow in turn. We're not as graceful as Fasha, but we make it work. Stalker has the hardest time of it. The bullet in his leg is hurting him more than he lets on. I'm amazed Outback can scale the wall without our help. He must be monstrously strong, even despite his wound.

We circle around the back of the building, where it overlooks the reservoir. There is a back patio with a swimming pool and a bar. Everything is done up in some kind of vaguely Asian décor. Whoever built this place must have just bought a truck of random Chinese junk and decided that it looked 'authentic' enough for tourists. Well, I've been in some pretty authentic Malay houses and they don't look anything like this place. The lights are on, and the place is littered with empty bottles and broken glass. We take shelter behind the bar until the guards come around for their patrol.

When we hear glass crackling under their boots, we strike. Stalker takes the one on the right. Grabs the man by the neck and drives a knife in sideways. Fasha pulls his hand away from his weapon. He only struggles a little before he dies. Mine goes less smoothly. I grab him by the throat, but he reflexively twists away from me at the last moment. Now I'm just hanging onto his shoulder, pushing the barrel of his gun away from me as he tries to turn. When he loses his footing I slam into a table and lose my grip. It's up to Chuckles and Outback to dive on him before he squeezes off a round and wakes the whole place up. They pin his arms to the ground and pummel his face until he stops moving.

"You okay?" Outback asks, as he admires his stolen PKM.

"Yeah," I groan as I roll onto my aching back. "Just my pride." I've already crossed the event horizon of despair. There's nothing else these guys can do to hurt me now... Not in any way that matters.

Stalker gives us our next FRAGO. We're going to avoid the guards out front for now, and instead move directly into the building. The exterior doors are unsecured. We sneak in, and find ourselves in what looks like a hotel lobby. Everything is made of fake marble and slate-colored tile. To the right we have a set of double-doors that lead into a dining room. To the left, a grand staircase decorated with all manner of faux bamboo and ebony-lacquered wood. Just like we expected, the place has been turned into a command post. There are radios and ruggedized computers. I walk past a plastic bucket filled with ammunition. Sandbags line the windows. The hotel reception desk is occupied by a Tech-Viper. He is sitting behind a console, tapping away obliviously.

Stalker takes him down with his knife, and immediately takes his place behind the computer. Hopefully he is running Cobra's equivalent of JBC-P and we can get some kind of clue on their dispositions. Fasha and I search the rest of the room. Find old magazines, DVDs, rations and other nonsense, but nothing that gives us any clue what they are up to here. Chuckles and Outback come back from their errand. I point to the staircase, and Outback takes up security.

"Getting anywhere?" I whisper.

"Maybe," she says. She has found a Panzerfaust antitank weapon that is almost as big as she is. "Maybe I should try this on that armored car outside."

I don't smile. "As long as no one leaves this place alive."

Truth is, I'm barely paying attention. I'm more interested in the dining room doors. The originals are made of oak and glass, but when I pull them open I am confronted with something that looks more like a vault door. I can hear the hum of what sounds like a distant generator. It takes me a moment to realize it is coming from beneath my feet. I can feel the vibration translated through the tiles and into my boots. The edges are sealed with rubber. I touch the handle and pull it down. The deadbolt moves. I motion to Fasha to cover me as I crack the door open. It's just has heavy as I expect. I force it open an inch and see a blue light glowing on the other side. The whole places smells like chlorine. I take a peek, and my heart skips a beat.

"Stalker," I say. "You're going to want to see this."

 **22**

"It's a lift."

But not a lift that goes up. This one heads down, into the dark recesses of the earth. It's a functional, industrial kind of platform designed to haul loads of equipment. The control panel is nothing but a pair of buttons wired to a motor, much the same as you'd find on any piece of construction equipment. I can tell that this place used to be a dining room. But Cobra has torn everything out. There's no carpet, no chandelier; Nothing but the lift, pipes, and wires. It seems like every exposed wire and every water faucet has been taken over and retrofitted such that it runs down into the cavern below the resort.

"Are you joking me?" Stalker asks.

We're all wondering the obvious questions: Where does it go and what is it for? Nobody actually asks them out loud. But I'm determined to find out anyway. I immediately take my place on the lift and reach for the control box.

"Slow down, soldier," Stalker interrupts. "We're not going down there."

"We have to," I say.

"No. We've done enough already. We're going to pull out and call in a spot report. If you go down there, you'll be trapped."

I doubt it. We already know this place is a giant honeycomb of interior caverns and underwater tunnels. But more importantly, I'm past the point of caring. There's nothing more this place can do to me. What's more is that I've reached the point where I have to know what this place is. I've given up too much to go home is nothing but questions. The problem is that Stalker will never understand those kinds of arguments. I have to frame it in the only terms he comprehends.

"Our mission is to find Doctor Burke and Sarah," I say.

"No," he insists. "Our mission is to recon Cobra sites and prepare for the invasion. Our mission is to win the war. This is bigger than just two hostages."

"You don't have to come with me. The rest of you can go back. Make the report. I don't care. You can even have this." I unscrew the thermal optic on my weapon and toss it to him. "Somebody needs to tell them what they found."

"I don't think so," Stalker says. "We do this as a team or not at all. You need to come with us, and that's an order."

Fasha Tan laughs out loud. "It's a good thing I'm not in your army." She steps onto the platform and slaps the button. The lift immediately lurches and drops. I don't even try to stop her. I just sit back and let it happen.

"Stop!" Stalker shouts. "Wait!"

She just waves 'bye-bye' as we vanish into the earth. I can hear Stalker cursing us as we descend. But I don't care anymore. They can throw the book at me later. Assuming we're still alive. The lift moves surprisingly fast. We drop down a long tunnel with only the occasional caged bulb for lighting. I watch the yellow light wash Fasha's face in waves.

"You didn't have to do that," I said.

"It's too late, now." The safety lever on her AK-47 is locked in the 'Auto' position. "And you traded your dog for me. I'm not going to forget that."

"I think I love you."

"Please," she says. "Leave the jokes to Chuckles."

"I try," I say. "But he doesn't Chuckle so much anymore."

The lift is almost to the floor. There's no way to know how far we have come. A hundred meters, maybe. Far enough that I can't hear Stalker anymore. He probably evacuated the AO rather than waiting for us to come back. And I don't blame him. I'm pretty sure we're not coming back, at all. We raise our weapons to our shoulders, with the expectation that we will be walking into an ambush.

There are times I wonder about the rightness of what I do. This is not one of those times. We stand in a room that glows with blue light from a half-dozen computer monitors and ultraviolet lamps. Every surface is covered with either tile or plastic tarps. It is cool, almost uncomfortably so. I take a cautious step forward, and my boot steps in a puddle of what I dearly hope to be water. Bare walls on both sides are limestone cave surfaces. We pick our way through bundles of computer cables, vats of blue liquid, and bubbling cylinders filled with chemicals I cannot even guess at. Battery boxes hum and click in oblivious contentment. Three large-screen televisions scroll through endless strings of digits with no apparent rhyme or reason.

"Nobody's home," I say.

"Don't count on it," Fasha replies.

We walk through the entry room and emerge into an enormous cavern. The place is covered with moss and calcium deposits. Flowers grow in piles of guano. The ceiling looks like some kind of living carpet. Thousands upon thousands of bats cling to the inverted surface. There is a single opening in the rock above us, where moonlight peeks through gray clouds. There are steps carved into the rock, and more sculpture on the walls. They're only vaguely recognizable as Hindu. These are something older and less beautiful. Primitive monster faces left over from something that predates the Vedic. We step up onto what can only be described as a dias; A raised platform carved out of stone where someone has installed a set of very modern hexagonal tents.

I feel as though we are stepping into some kind of space ship. Plastic sheets are hung over the doors. We step through them, leading with our weapons, and enter a room that is somewhere between a laboratory and a factory. Large squares of white leather lay stretched over mechanical racks. Rail-mounted spritzers move back and forth, misting them with some kind of liquid. The reverse side is carpeted in some kind of cilia. I hesitate to touch them, but I can't help myself. I know exactly what this is. When I pinch it between my fingers the chromatophores come alive in explosions of color. It shifts from yellow to bruise to blue, and then finally fades completely.

"That's what they're wearing," Fasha Tan says.

"No," I reply. "It's their skin."

I slowly step back, as if I'm touched by something unclean. The hum of generators and computer drives seems to rise and fall like the breathe of some strange electrical God. Suddenly the whole place comes alive. Bubbling liquid surges through hydraulic veins. Robotic arms lift new skin-sheets from their liquid vats. The older sheets rotate and stack themselves in sequence. It's like watching some obscene mechanical clock strike twelve – a flurry of precisely synchronized activity that turns the room inside out and yet somehow ends where it began.

"Okay..." I whisper. "That was... Weird."

A set of metal stairs leads down into another crack in the ground. We are going deeper into the cave now, where the only light comes from wall-mounted lamps. The air gets colder with every step we take. It smells of dust and bat crap, but even these scents are drowned out by the stink of bleach. The walls are lined with glass. The whole place is glowing with green light. It's like being inside some kind of mad scientist's idea of an aquarium. Strange tumors grow inside cylinders of liquid amnion. I see vivisected squid and diagrams of chameleons. A leather chair rests in one corner, curious for its incongruity. But this is nothing compared to the centerpiece.

At the far end of the hall, a man floats in a tank of liquid. He is nude, but for the layers of psychedelic skin grafts covering his flesh. They shift and move and pulse with light. Curling tentacles emerge from his jaw. Intravenous tubes pierce his skin. Gills attached to his chest open and close with every breath. I can see the effluence flowing out of his lungs through the slits in the skin. There is no way to tell where the cuttlefish ends and the man begins. He is something in between.

We don't know what to say. Fasha Tan takes a step back and starts to lose her balance. I feel my fingers go weak, and I almost drop my weapon. The Cuttle-Man looks at us with deep blue eyes. I see his lips moving between the sewn-on tentacles. There is no sound. He presses his palm against the glass. Fasha is the first to recover. I watch her step forward. She reaches out to touch the glass, placing her fingertips over his.

"Please do not," Doctor Brahamiah says. We were so focused on the strange devices and the floating monster that we didn't even notice him standing in the darkened corridor beyond it. I am so blind without my dog. Both of us take aim with our rifles. He is holding something in his hand. I come within an inch of plugging him, for fear that he is holding a weapon.

"I really wouldn't," he continues. "This is dead man's switch. This whole cave is wired to explode. If I let go of the trigger, we all die."

"Thank you for clarifying," I say. "Now come over here where I can shoot you."

"That's a poor way to start a negotiation."

Fasha cracks a grin. "Who's negotiating?"

"I am," Brahamiah says. "I would like to negotiate my surrender."

The man makes my hair stand on end, and I don't even know why. His back is too straight. His voice is too calm. He thinks he knows us. He thinks we won't kill him. He anticipates a moral imperative to take him prisoner, and he intends to turn it into a weapon he can use against us. We can't afford to capture him, but neither can we afford to let him go. "He's stalling," I say. My finger touches the trigger.

"What about Burke? Where is he? And where is the girl?"

"Oh, they are close by." Fingers tap the arm of the chair. "But I'm going to keep that to myself for now. I do need some leverage, here. The fact of the matter is that I would rather be dead that made a prisoner, so I suppose I will need certain disagreeable guarantees from you." He takes a seat in the chair and crosses his leg over his knee. I can only guess what kind of exotic animal those shoes are made from. The dead man's switch rests on the arm of the chair. It looks vaguely similar to the olive drab clicker we use to initiate claymores, except this one has a radio antenna sticking out of it. I'm trying to figure out how I can kill him without giving him time to release his grip. I've got nothing.

"First things first, then. Did they rig the dam to blow?"

"No. Of course not," Brahamiah says. "Cobra is fueled by spite, but they are rarely fanatics. Better to bait the government into attacking the dam, and blame them for whatever happens next. But I'm in no mood to talk about that."

I glance at Fasha, and she looks back over her shoulder. Brahamiah assumes we are worried about Cobra reinforcements. "You're right to be anxious," he continues, "We will need to wrap this up quickly. The Pythons have to report to me for rejuvenation at the end of every patrol. They could arrive at any moment."

"Pythons?" Fasha asks.

"Yes. This is the new Python. I'm told the first version was a radar-absorbent paint. Rather problematic for human subjects. They call it Python V-Two. A synthetic skin graft for optical camouflage. I've heard it works quite well."

"Alright, then," I say, and drop my weapon to the low ready. "What do you want?"

He thinks for a moment. Still stalling. "Amnesty. In exchange for the hostages and my research."

"I can't promise that."

"Then I expect you have some phone calls to make." He gestures towards the corridor. "Better hurry up."

"Forget that," Fasha replies.

Brahamiah ignores her. He just sits there, patient as can be, waiting for our clock to run out. His fingers keep tapping the armrest. He just studies us with a cold, reptilian stare. Then I see something click in his head.

"You're Fasha Tan, aren't you?" He adjusts his seat and leans forward. "Tell me, why did you turn us down?"

"What?" she asks. I glance at her out the corner of my eye.

"That's the one thing that's been driving me mad. We came here to set you free, and in the process create a new state. I mean, this place has been at war with itself since 1948. And probably long before that. Cobra gave these people what they wanted. Power. Influence. Weapons. A nation to call their own. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Fasha shakes her head slowly, but does not lower her weapon. "Is it that hard to figure out?"

"It baffles me," Brahamiah says. "I mean, after seventy years of war, Cobra gave you exactly what you asked for. And you still don't want it. And now you've seen their response. Displays of power. Hijacked airplanes. Terror Dromes. All out of spite. The world has seen this story over and over and over. And for what? Was it your pride? Did you want to be independent? Is there something you wanted to prove?"

"You don't seriously expect me to join you now?" she asks.

"No," he replies. "I just want to understand. This world makes so little sense to me."

"We're out of time!" I shout. "We need Burke and Sarah. Give them to us, and we walk away."

"Please. You think losing your temper will do you any good at all?"

"You sound like my ex," I say.

Then I see it. A minuscule drop of sweat runs down his forehead. He can't be hot. It's impossible. I'm almost shivering in this place. That's when I know he's bluffing. Fasha and I glance at each other. Then he turns and takes cover, aiming at something outside the door. Brahamiah turns his head to look. There can't be more than three meters between us, and it is the longest second of my life. I drop my gun and leap forward, wrapping both of my hands around his fist and squeezing as hard as possible. Brahamiah struggles. He kicks me in the gut, but I don't let go. We wrestle for control of the switch until Fasha gives him a butt-stroke to the back of the skull. When his body goes limp, that leaves me in control of the switch.

Removing his fingers isn't easy. I have to keep pressure on the switch while I worm my fingers in between his. Once I've secured it, I can remove his hand completely and take the switch from him. Fasha hands me a roll of electrical tape so I can wrap it nice and tight. It's possible that he was bluffing, but I'm not willing to take the chance. I stick it in my pocket.

"You knew he wouldn't let go?" she asks.

"I knew he would hesitate."

She gives me a slap on the cheek and calls me a jackass.

I plant the barrel of my carbine in between Brahamiah's shoulder blades. Fasha applies flex cuffs, and then searches him for weapons. When the prisoner starts to groan, I just grab him by the hair and drive his skull into the floor. That takes it out of him. When he comes around again, I drag him to his feet and make him kneel in front of the Cuttle-Man's tank.

"What the heck is this?"

"It's not really water," the prisoner says, answering the wrong question. "It's a suspension of oxygenated fluorocarbon. They wanted a prototype Eel, but the gills can't be efficient enough to breathe actual water."

The Cuttle-Man looks at Fasha. His eyes are unspeakably sad. One finger touches the surface of the glass and begins to move. Fasha follows it with her own fingertip. There is some sort of flotsam clinging to the inside of the glass. He traces letters.

'SARAH?'

"Oh no," she says, recoiling as if she touched a snake.

"Doctor Burke was an expert on tissue regeneration," Brahamiah explains. "He was working on some experimental products for DARPA. I hoped he might be able to help me with the tissue grafts. As it is now, the tissue needs constant rejuvenation. I hoped we could find a way to make them permanent. But he couldn't. Just like he couldn't help with any of my other projects."

"And?" I ask.

"And I found another use for him."

Fasha turns around and raises her AK-47.

"Go ahead," Brahamiah explains. "I'd rather be dead. But then you won't find out about the others."

"I don't care," she says. "I'm sending him to Hell." But she doesn't. She just looks at me. I know exactly what she wants. Permission. Acceptance. Someone who understands why she has to do this. But I don't give it to her.

"He killed them all," she insists. "He killed everyone. He killed my people. He killed Bombstrike. He killed your dog. They're all dead because of him. I can't... I can't let him live. You can't let him live."

"Fasha-" I begin.

"Do it!" Brahamiah shouts. "Do it or he'll think you're weak!"

That does it. She pulls the trigger. The round passes through his skull. He falls flat on his back. Dead.

For a moment we stand there in a state of shock. My ears are ringing from the gunshot. Even Fasha looks surprised. Her eyes are startled and her mouth hangs wide open. The spent casing rolls off a table and pings against the tile floor.

"We needed him," I whisper, for all that it matters. Then the adrenaline kicks in and my focus comes back. "We've got to move," I say. There is no way they missed that gunshot. This place will be swarming with Cobra in seconds.

"What about him?" Fasha asks, pointing at Doctor Burke – or rather, what used to be Doctor Burke.

The Cuttle-Man shakes his head. He traces his finger beneath the word 'Sarah.'

"We have to find her. We have to get topside."

Fasha nods to me. Then she levels her gun at the tank. Burke closes his eyes, and she puts him out of his misery. The cylinder explodes with her gunshots. Strange fluid splashes our feet. It stinks of blood and chemicals. The Cuttle-Man that used to be Richard Burke trembles for a moment, and then it dies.

Fasha is already crying. "He said there were others. What did he mean by that?"

"I don't know. But we have to go. Now!"

We run away from the horror, moving back through the tents and up the corridors. The escape is somehow longer than I remember it. We don't even take the time to clear our corners. We just want out of this horrible place. I'm moving so fast that I forget to pay attention to the wires and cables under my feet. When I fall, I drive my knee into a piece of rock. And after fifteen years of playing Army, I don't have much of a knee left. Fasha turns around and helps me to my feet. We are almost to the tent flap, and about to escape into the cavern beyond. It's just a few more steps, when I hear it. Not a Ghost Viper. The others.

It starts with a clicking sound. Not a metallic sound, like a gun being cocked. This is the sound a dog makes when it steps on steel. The click of claws on metal plate. We look into the darkness and see glowing green eyes staring back at us. The creature steps forward, into the green glow of the chemical aquarium. It is not a dog. It is something between a dog and a man; An abomination that only approximates humanity. The body is vaguely bipedal, but it lurches forward with a slumping, almost canine look. The creature drools from lips that don't close correctly. And it growls. It growls with a wheezing sound that puts it somewhere between a cough and a sigh.

When it comes at us, I squeeze down the trigger and I don't stop until it is dead. I empty the entire magazine into its hide. Empty casings ricochet off glass. My bolt locks to the rear and smoke drifts from the ejection port.

Two more creatures come from behind it but I'm already empty. I don't even have time to really comprehend what these things are. One looks like some kind of cat. The other has scale plates fused to its limbs and an over-sized jaw full of crocodile teeth. It lurches at me and I feed it my Kevlar wrist guard. Fasha sprays the second one with her AK-47. It tackles her and drives her to the ground, clawing and tearing at her flesh. She just kicks and punches until rears back, and she can place her AK in the center of its gut. Another long burst takes it out.

I'm still wrestling with my monster. The teeth penetrate my wrist guard. I can feel them digging into my skin. Sharp claws lacerate my legs. The stupid thing must weigh three hundred pounds. I'm afraid it will crush me before it actually eats me. I try to kick it back to create some space, but its feet move too fast. It stays on top of me and grabs at my arm. I feel the bones in my broken finger twisting and grinding. Fasha sits up and points her weapon at it, but she is empty. She panics and tries to change her magazine, but the adrenaline is too much. Her hands are shaking and she fumbles the mag. I know that I'm about to die.

Until Chuckles puts a round in its face.

The creature recoils in pain. Chuckles keeps shooting. It retreats into the dark corridor beyond us, but he doesn't stop shooting. Even after the weapon runs dry, he changes magazines and empties another thirty rounds into the darkness, just for good measure.

"What the heck was that?" he asks.

I try to answer, but I'm already breathing too hard. It takes all my strength just to stand up. There are cuts and scratches all over my body. My uniform is in tatters. Blood oozes from lacerations on my legs. Fasha isn't much better off. She limps when she moves, and her clothes are stained with blood. She finally finishes swapping magazines and lets her bolt snap forward. We are both bent over and gasping for air, until we finally recover enough to move.

"I don't know," I say. "Some kind of monster." Then I point to Brahamiah's corpse. "Blame... Blame this cretin."

"And what is that?" he asks, pointing to Burke.

"Don't worry about it," Fasha says. "Forget you even saw it. We have to go. We have to find Sarah."

"We think she is upstairs," Chuckles explains. Fasha clings to me as we limp back towards the elevator. My foot is dragging through puddles of moss and bat crap, but I don't even notice. "You aren't going to bleed out, are you?"

"Why?" I ask, as we collapse in the elevator. "Am I squirting? If it's not arterial, we'll be fine." I've seen people hack each other half to death with machetes without collapsing. It's pretty well known that lacerations are nowhere near as dangerous as punctures. They're not pleasant, but they're easier to fix than a gunshot or a stab wound to an organ.

Chuckles hits the button. We start to ascend.

"You came back for us," Fasha says, looking up at him. "I thought you'd write us off."

"No," he replies. "No, we couldn't."

 **23**

It takes us almost a full minute to get to the top of the lift. That's a minute we can't afford. I hear bursts of gunfire coming from the rooms above us. They echo down the shaft. Stalker is still waiting for us when we arrive. He crouches next to the vault door, and shoots at some target in the foyer that I can't see from here.

"What did you find?" he asks, between gunshots.

"Burke," I say. And that's all I say.

"Good. You can have this back now." He hands me the thermal optic I left behind earlier, and I re-attach it to my weapon. There's no way I can use it to shoot now that I've disturbed the zero, but it will still come in handy if we find more Ghost Vipers. Or any other freaks they want to throw at us.

"We're done here," Chuckles says.

Outback is shouting at us from outside the vault, but I can't hear what he is saying.

"No," Fasha insists. "We aren't leaving without the girl."

We barely make it through the vault door before Outback opens up with the PKM. The foyer has turned into a battlefield. There are already two dead Cobra Troopers on the opposite staircase. Outback has turned the front desk into a fighting position. He fires bursts of 7.62 at the door atop the staircase, effectively turning it into a 'fatal funnel' that the enemy can't assault.

"Belt's almost done," he says. "Ready? Gun down."

The rest of us open fire on the door while Outback reloads. I can see troopers moving on the far side. One of them takes a round in the arm and goes down. The rest are pinned. They can't push forward, but neither can they retreat. I empty a full magazine in short bursts, let it drop, and slap in my replacement. I didn't shoot much in the cave, so I'm still almost full.

"Gun up," Outback says. He takes over suppressing the door.

Stalker taps Chuckles on the shoulder. They follow the eastern wall, moving through the back patio, and re-enter closer to the staircase. When he is within a few meters, he preps a frag grenade and lets it cook for a second. The Troopers are surprised. We take cover and clap out hands over our ears. The grenade shreds human flesh and blows the door-frame to splinters. For a moment, everything is quiet.

"That will buy us a few seconds," I say. "We need to find Sarah."

"I've got a lead on that," Chuckles explains. "Come check out the back room. They've got security cameras."

He shows us a row of television monitors with grainy black-and-white images. It doesn't look good. At least ten Troopers and Vipers are closing on our position. The cameras show them moving out of their barracks in the resort cabins. They run up the small slope towards the motor pool and the TOC.

"We have to push out!" I yell. "We've got to seize the motor pool. We can't let them get hold of those vehicles, or we're done for. And somebody bring that bazooka."

"Where is the girl?" Fasha asks.

"Right there," Chuckles says. One of the cameras captures a cabin with a pair of Troopers standing guard. The cameras don't capture the interiors, but the fact that they haven't joined the squads assaulting our position is very strange. "Whatever that is, they must think it's important."

"Time's up," Stalker says. I can already hear gunfire coming from outside. "We go out the back, swing left, circle the building and flank them. Ready? Move!"

The team follows him outdoors onto the patio. Chuckles is carrying the Panzerfaust. We stack on the corner of the building. The first wave of Troopers are creeping cautiously towards the vehicles. Outback sprays them with a long burst of machine-gun fire, and the rest of us assault. We don't have a choice. We hit them hard, and we hit them fast, and we make them react to our moves instead of the other way around. The only way any of us will survive this is if we take the initiative and never let it go.

It's a short run to the closest vehicle, which happens to be the Rage. But seconds of exposure count out here. I hear bullets whip-snap past my head. One of them even glances off my Kevlar. When we hit the Rage, there is nothing between us and the enemy except Stuns and a few Stingers. Fasha immediately falls prone and begins shooting under the vehicles. The thick tires offer some protection, but not much. The rest of us prepare frag grenades and throw them all at once. I don't know if we hit anybody. The fundamental truth of combat is that nobody really has any clue what is going on. You just keep your head down, move and shoot, and hope your buddies watch your back.

"I'm going up," I say, and begin to climb the vehicle. I'm thankful the Rage is so low-profile. I try to keep the turret between myself and the bad guys until I hurdle the edge and sink into the gunner's seat. The gun controls are a pair of joysticks attached to a body housing. Not dissimilar from any other tank. I can hear small arms fire rattling off the sides of the vehicle while I figure out how to turn it on. Eventually I just resort to mashing buttons and hitting knobs. Nothing. Totally dead.

"Stalker," I shout. "Does this thing have a battery switch?"

He starts cursing as he crawls under the vehicle. Fasha's gun is inches away from his head as he gropes around in the darkness. The thing is, certain vehicles have a main battery disconnect switch on the undercarriage. The intent is to prevent the batteries from draining when the vehicle is not in use. I have no idea whether the Rage has one or not. I keep jamming buttons.

"Found it," he says. The controls immediately come alive. A half-dozen green lights come on, plus one that reads 'Safety.' I push the button, beneath it and the light turns red. I'm actually not sure whether that is good or bad, but I suppose there's only one way to find out. I traverse the turret to the right. There is no periscope. Rather, the sights appear on a glowing heads-up display in front of me. I watch the troopers scatter. They know what's coming.

I sweep the slope with 30mm cannon fire. The rounds punch huge holes in the asphalt. Some of them skip off the surface and strike the cabins. I can only hope Sarah is keeping her head down. To my left, I see somebody trying to climb into a Stun and turn its guns on me. It is intensely satisfying to watch the Stun turn to scrap beneath my guns. The Stalker and Chuckles move to the left and right of the vehicles and gun down troopers as they try to escape the cannon fire. Outback moves up behind us, but he's waving and shouting at something.

A HISS tank comes rolling up the road towards us. I traverse and draw a bead on him. There's no telling if their guns can defeat the Rage's armor, but I'm willing to bet it can. My only prayer is that I can open fire before he realizes the Rage isn't on his side. We start shooting at the same time. The HISS' canopy is no match for 30mm. I get the mobility kill almost immediately. His cannons keep going. I feel the Rage shaking as they tear into the crew compartment. One wheel explodes. A round pierces the turret to the left. It passes over my shoulder. Hot metal splinters embed themselves in my face. I thumb the top button on the control stick, out of sheer desperation. An antitank missile to my right streaks off down the road and explodes against the side of the HISS.

My guns are empty. I'm a sitting duck. The tank gunner takes a minute to come back to his senses. The side of the HISS is torn open, but the guns are still operating. These things are tougher than I thought. Chuckles gives him a taste of the Panzerfaust. The rocket pierces the damaged hull and sets of the magazine. The HISS explodes in an orange fireball. It's stunning to watch.

"Are we good?" Stalker asks.

I'm about to exit the turret, when I see something new. There are shapes moving on my HUD. Thermal ghosts superimposed on my field of vision. I know what that means.

"Ghost Vipers!"

The first one opens fire. Outback takes a burst to the chest and goes down. I fire my second anti-tank rocket into the middle of the cluster, hoping to kill someone with the fragmentation. Then I sit up in my chair, leaning my SCAR out the top of the turret and spraying. The thermal scope is still alive. I'm dominating the high ground, what little of it there is, knocking them out one at a time until my mag runs dry.

The Ghost Vipers take the opportunity to advance. A 20mm grenade detonates against the side of the turret. I know my time here is up. I have to bail out the side, which consists of me practically rolling out the side of the thing and falling flat on the pavement. I hit my head, and Fasha has to pull me to my feet.

"Outback?" I ask.

I find him propped up against a tire. It looks like his plate carrier took most of the rounds. He is pale. The first round was probably defeated by the ceramic plate. The second and third? Who knows? The plate breaks on impact. Ceramic shares might slow the next bullets down, but I doubt they'd stop it completely. He coughs, and blood drips from his mouth. That tells us everything we need to know.

"I'm done," he says.

"No," Chuckles insists. "Screw that. Not again."

He reaches for the PKM, but his fingers are too weak to grasp it. Then he looks at Stalker. "My turn... To stay behind."

"We aren't retreating," Stalker says. "We're going to push forward. We have to break through and then we have to rescue the girl. Mutt, take point. We'll cover you while you move. Outback... We're coming back for you."

We advance through the motor pool, moving from one vehicle to the next. I lead the way with my SCAR. The first two Ghost Vipers I catch in the open. They go down. There are three more taking cover downhill. I don't think they realize I can see them through my stolen optic. One of them tries to advance while the remaining two try to suppress. I'm crouched behind a Stun, shooting from behind the over-sized front tire. The rubber soaks at least three rounds intended for me. I bring down the first one with a burst of 5.56. The last two dig in behind stone walls.

"There!" I point. "Right there. Hit it!"

Chuckles tries to crawl into the stun, but they keep his head down with a pair of 20mm grenades. The Stun's armor is entirely centered on its egg-shaped front. The sides are open to enemy fire, and these two cretins are pouring it on. They take turns spraying us with gunfire. We try to frag them, but the grenades fall short of their target. It only keeps their heads down for a moment. I think I would very much like a grenade launcher right now.

We hear a grinding noise and look to the right. The Rage is moving. Barely moving, but moving all the same. Its front right tire is nonexistent. The corner just drags on the concrete. Both Ghost Vipers turn their guns on it, but they don't have a prayer of penetrating the front armor. It rolls downhill, picking up speed, until it slams into the concrete wall and crushes the Vipers beneath the front grill.

"Outback?" we call as we run towards the Rage.

I have to pry the front hatch open. Outback driver's seat. His chest is covered in blood. His skin is the color of ivory.

"Yo Joe," he whispers, and then he dies.

 **24**

The cabin is easy enough to find. It's the only one with a pair of guards in front of it. The four of us pull up in a Stun, and before the Troopers even know what is going on we kill them both with our small arms. I don't even feel bad about it. I flinch when I pull the trigger, and in that momentary darkness I see Bombstrike and Junkyard. I see Outback, and Tiny, and Doctor Burke. And I don't care.

Chuckles and I approach the door with weapons ready. Fasha pulls security to our rear. Stalker creeps along the edge of the building and tries to peek through the window. He gives me a thumbs-down at shoulder height. 'Negative.' But we all know better. It doesn't mean there's no one home; It just means he can't see them.

The door opens inwards. I turn the knob and Chuckles kicks it open, levels his weapon and steps through. The place is dark. The only light comes from the streetlights streaming through Venetian blinds. It looks much like any hotel room. A teenaged girl sits on the bed. She looks terrified, and I don't blame her. It probably sounds like the end of the world out there.

"Sarah," Chuckles says as he lowers his weapon. "Are you okay? You don't have to be afraid. We're here to-"

"Stop!" I shout. Chuckles freezes in place. I tap the pressure switch on the side of my SCAR and place a laser dot on Copperhead's helmet. Between the darkness and the active camouflage skin, Chuckles didn't even notice him standing there. I can only guess he was distracted by the hostage. He is pointing an over-sized handgun directly at Sarah's head.

"Sloppy," Copperhead says. His voice is muffled by the helmet and face mask. The accent can only be Cajun. "You must be getting tired. Was that you that escaped through the cave?"

Chuckles shakes his head. His weapon hangs at his waist, but I've got mine trained on Copperhead. I think about trying to put a round through his brain stem. Probably not wise. His helmet might deflect it into something less vital.

"You know you aren't getting out of here," Chuckles says.

"Oh no?" Copperhead takes a step forward, until his gun is pressed against the base of Sarah's skull. Even in the meager light, I can see the tears dripping down her cheeks. "This is how it works: We are going to walk out there, and get in the fancy car. You will let us go. If you try to stop me, she dies."

"And then you die," I say.

"C'est la vie. The Terror Drome is operational. As soon as they realize the site has been taken, they'll destroy the whole place with artillery."

"Even the laboratory?"

"The monsters are inconsequential. Brahamiah is a failure. I hope you killed him."

"Yeah," I say. "No worries about that."

Sarah is trembling. I don't blame her. I just give her a wink, even though I have no idea how we're going to get her out of this. When I hear footsteps behind me, I can only assume that it is Stalker and Fasha Tan. I tell them to wait, but they don't listen. Then I look back. Stalker and Fasha are there, all right. But they have their hands in air. Captured by another pair of Troopers.

"Just get it over with," Stalker says.

"No," Copperhead insists. "You're more valuable to me alive."

"Yeah," I say. "Cobra always finds a good use for their prisoners. Don't they?"

I'm not even sure what Copperhead thinks of that. He just gives me this hateful stare. Does he even know what Brahamiah is doing down there? I doubt it. There is probably a reason the first room we came to was set aside for the Ghost Vipers.

"The game's over, GI Joe," Copperhead insists. "Put down your weapon and raise your hands."

I lower my carbine, but instead of raising my hands, I reach into my pocket. "I bet you'll want our phones," I say. The Trooper behind me objects. I feel the butt of his weapon strike against the back of my head and everything goes white for a moment. That's what I get for not following instructions. The Trooper pries the device out of my fingers.

"What is that?" Copperhead asks. The Trooper starts screwing with the electrical tape. The switch clicks. The bombs go off. And it turns out Brahamiah wasn't bluffing, after all.

The explosion sounds like artillery. It doesn't just shake the ground. It shakes the entire room. Glass windows shatter. A big-screen TV falls off the wall. Sarah screams and ducks. Copperhead is shocked, but only for a moment. Chuckles lunges and pushes him back against the wall. They wrestle for control of the gun. Copperhead desperately squeezes the trigger time and again without effect.

Stalker and turns on his captor and punches the Trooper in the throat. The bastard tries to aim with his weapon, but Stalker pins it beneath his arm. Gunfire stitches harmlessly across the carpet. He gives the Trooper a hip throw, and finishes with his knife. Fasha tackles the other Trooper, the one who was dumb enough to mess with the detonator. He falls backwards against a table but easily throws her off. Fasha must weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. She is out of her league. I'm just picking myself off the ground when the Trooper reaches for his weapon, and I give him a burst of gunfire.

"Get out of here!" I shout. "Move!" Fasha grabs the girl and helps Stalker to his feet. He takes Sarah and shields her with his body. They start moving towards the door.

Chuckles is still wrestling with Copperhead. He tries to turn the handgun inwards, but Chuckles blocks his arm. Copperhead fires again, and the round comes so close it creases Chuckles' scalp. Chuckles is stunned. I try to take aim, but I can't shoot through Chuckles' body. In that second, Copperhead plants his boot in Chuckles' chest and kicks him backwards. He puts a round in each of Chuckles' legs, and then two more in his chest for good measure. I'm pretty sure the plate caught them, but there's no way to tell.

Fasha raises her gun to shoot. Copperhead is faster. He puts a round in her gut and she drops the gun. I cry out as she stumbles backwards, clutching her belly. Blood is dripping between her fingers. Her face is somewhere between shock and agony. For a moment her eyes hang wide open, and then she cringes. I watch her mouth deform into a grimace as she falls to her knees. Copperhead tries to execute her with a shot to the head, but the slide is locked to the rear. The gun is empty.

I push Chuckles off me and reach for my weapon. Copperhead kicks my hand and I lose my grip. Probably broke some of my other fingers. First he kicks me in the gut. Then he drops down on top of me with both knees and starts punching me in the face. My head cracks against the floor and I see colored lights. He keeps punching until I start spitting up pieces of teeth. He doesn't stop until Fasha limps up behind him and places a knife deep in his shoulder. Copperhead shouts and throws her to the floor.

That gives me the time I need to draw my pistol and place three rounds in his chest. Copperhead looks surprised. I place another three directly into his helmet. And he's done. The body collapses to the ground, leaving me to peel myself off the floor.

"Fasha!" I gasp, and crawl over to her. She is laying on her back, clutching her gut. "Hang on," I say. "Hang on." I dig into my first-aid kid and find a bandage to slap on her. There's no telling how long she can last. It might be ten minutes. It might be ten hours. A gut shot is usually a slow, agonizing death. I brush the hair away from her face and she looks up at me.

"Thank you," she whispers. I don't even know why.

"I've got Sarah in the Stun," Stalker says. "We've got to go." He picks up Fasha and carries her towards the vehicle.

Chuckles is still on the floor, although he's come back enough that he's trying to patch his own wounds. He has a bullet in each leg, and he's bleeding badly. I have to help him unfold the dressings and wrap himself up. I'm only halfway done when I hear a whistling sound. We both stop and look at each other. There's only one thing in the world that makes that kind of whistle. The artillery comes ahead of schedule. I don't know where the munition lands, but it's a big one. Even bigger than the underground blast we felt a moment ago.

"Stalker," I say into my mike. "We've got incoming. Get out of here."

"I can come back for you," he says.

"No, just go. Get the girls out of here. I'll take care of Chuckles."

The building shakes from the artillery. There is no way this place can survive it. If even one round hits us the whole place will collapse. In any artillery barrage, it is always preferable to seek hardened shelter. If that's not possible, there is nothing left but to flee. Whether we live or die will be nothing but sheer luck. I just hope they are concentrating fire on the resort uphill.

Chuckles tries to climb to his feet, but he can't make it. I have to force him to stay down while I finish tying off his legs. Only once that's done can I pick him up and carry him piggyback the moment I make it to the door, another round hits and throws me off my feet. The blast was so close that Stalker realizes he can't wait anymore. I wave at him one more time, and he starts moving. It's not cowardice. It's duty. The hostage comes first. That, and there will be no one to rescue us if he's dead.

I pick up Chuckles a second time, and we run downhill. After the first hundred meters I wouldn't even call it running. I'm old and worn out. I can't carry Chuckles at anything more than a slow jog. He points his rifle limply over my shoulder. Two more rounds land behind us, and I have to look back. The resort is in flames. Cobra is shelling the crap out of their own TOC to try to kill us. Or, perhaps, they're just trying to destroy the evidence. The whole building is nothing but shattered brick and cinder block. Pieces of Stuns and Stingers are spread all over the place. I watch the entire ridge line start to collapse, as if the whole mountain were nothing but a giant sinkhole. Between the explosions underground and the artillery barrage, the hollow earth has finally just given up.

"Run," I say, even though I'm already gasping for air. "Just run!"

"Who are you talking to?" Chuckles asks.

"I don't know," I reply. "Myself."

We run into the darkened jungle. I have to pick my way through thorn-bushes and twisting vines. It's too easy to imagine being eaten by a crocodile or gunned down by Ghost Vipers. But there's nothing I can do. Anything waiting in that jungle has to be better than taking an artillery round. We've barely gone two hundred meters and my thighs are already spent. I have to slow down to a walk, and I struggle to keep my balance as we move downhill. I have to reach out to steady myself as we go.

Chuckles taps a button on his satellite phone. "Flint? Flint? I have a fire mission. I need you to place fire on the Terror Drome. Just hit the whole island with everything you have."

The island is on the other side of the ridge-line, so I don't see it happen. But I hear it. It sounds like thunder and it shakes the earth. Flashes of light reflect off the clouds above us. There are dozens of 155 rounds hitting the island in the space of seconds. No doubt, the Thai army already had their guns trained on the target and was just waiting for an excuse to let loose. The whole barrage lasts perhaps a full minute. But we don't take any more incoming. Whatever happened out there, they've silenced the enemy guns.

I make it to the bottom of the draw, when I lose my footing and fall face-first into a stream. For a moment I struggle in the water. It's just deep enough to drown me. I have to turn my back and drop Chuckles into the stream before I can stand up. He can't walk on his own. I have to grab him by his carrier and drag him through water and mud and river rocks, until we collapse on the shore.

"Still alive?" he says.

"Yeah," I say, as I cough up river water and gasp for air. "You okay?"

"Nope," Chuckles complains. He rolls onto his back so that his wounds won't touch the ground. One of them looks like it has stopped bleeding. The other is still going. Now I have to move to a pressure dressing. There's nothing left in my first aid kit but two rolls of gauze. It'll have to do. I place one on top of the first dressing, and roll the second around his leg to tighten it. He cringes.

"Is it bad?" I ask.

"Not fun," Chuckles replies. "But it's in my muscle. I don't think it broke anything. Should be okay. Where's the phone?"

"No telling. Did you drop it?"

"Yeah. Dropped it in the water. But no worries. That should do it," he says through gritted teeth. "Are you good?"

"Yeah," I lie. I'm a long way from good. My ears are ringing, my spine hurts, and my legs feel like rubber. The left side of my face is peppered with tiny pieces of metal. It burns. It burns bad. But this is GI Joe. It's like I said before: Knowing is half the battle, and the other half is staying alive. For a long moment we just rest, sitting there in the dark where the only thing attacking us is the mosquitoes. I don't know how long we waited. Not more than a minute or two. I would check my wristwatch, but it got smashed somewhere back there and I didn't even realize it.

"You could have just left me," Chuckles says.

"No," I reply. "To Hell with that. I'm bringing somebody home, even if it has to be you."

Then the whole sky comes alive. Bombs fell down on distant hilltops. Surface-to-air missiles streak upwards into the sky. I see the blue streaking fire of afterburners soaring over the reservoir, and the buzz of Vulcan guns. Anti-aircraft tracers stitch back and forth. I watch fighter jet explode in mid-air, but I can't tell what kind it is. I just hope it isn't one of ours. We are looking up when a Rattler passes overhead, so close that it shakes the trees. I don't expect there's anyway the pilot might see us in beneath the canopy. And even if he did, there's just nothing we can do about it. All I can hope is that the friendlies know what they're bombing.

"Hope they abandoned the Stun," Chuckles says. I remember Stalker, Fasha, and Sarah retreating from the house. But I don't know what happened to them. Chuckles assumes they made off in a vehicle. I don't know which is worse: Being killed by artillery, or having one of the good guys mistake you for a target.

"What now?" I ask.

"We can follow the river to the reservoir, and wait for someone to pick us up. Are you okay to move again?" Chuckles nods, but says nothing. I help him to his feet. He keeps one arm over my shoulder as we limp along through the darkness. Every few moments a bomb or missile hits something, and the ground shakes. But none of it comes close to us. We move slowly. I try to scan with my thermal scope, but the battery has finally died. Now it's just a paperweight. I unscrew the optic and let it fall into the mud.

It takes us ten minutes to limp our way to the reservoir. Every few minutes some kind of munition impacts nearby. The skies are clearing now, and there are more stars above us than I ever saw in Jersey. I wish I knew what was going on, up there. When a bomb goes off we hear it, and we feel it, but I couldn't tell you if it was arty or a missile strike or what. I imagine the sky is full of Reaper drones right now. They carry Hellfire and use thermal cameras to search for Stingers in the jungle. I expect they are flying an AWACs nearby, and manned fighters along with it. We watch a missile launch from the east ridge-line and streak into the air. Somewhere high above us we see a shower of sparks, which mean someone thousands of feet up is dispensing flares. There is no explosion, so I suppose he made it. Within seconds, munitions impact the same ridge-line. I hope they got him.

"Is that it?" he asks. "Is it over?"

"I don't know, man. I hope so. God, I hope so."

"Okay." Then he finally says, "I want you to know that I'm sorry."

"For what?" I ask.

"For everything."

"Yeah," I say. "Me too."

A long silence passes, where we do nothing but listen to the thunder. Artillery rounds land in the water and explode in three-story geysers. I hear the chatter of gunfire coming from the south. And more explosions. Helicopters swoop low over the dam. Probably Army Rangers trying to seize it. I take a deep breath, and realize that we're done here. All that's left is now is for us to sit back and watch the war.

"Hey, Mutt?" Chuckles asks. "Was I dreaming, or did I actually shoot a dinosaur?"

 **25**

We're not like other people. That much I know.

I sit outside a cafe in Bangkok. The evening sun is setting behind us. The whole place borders on Bedlam, between the traffic and the motorcycles and the crowds. But I don't care. I'm an old man, and there's not much that can get to me nowadays. I've seen too much, and done too much, and I'm too worn out to let the normal world bother me. When you go through an experiences like this, the whole world seems muted and just somehow gray. Faded. Distant. I don't know. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that it's not a place you can go back to once you've seen the dark corners of the earth.

Fasha Tan hides her face behind a teacup. She is being coy today.

"Look, the thing is that everyone has to tell their story after they go through a fight like that. That's one of the first things I learned. If you keep in inside and bottle it up, it will eat at your guts until you lose your mind. Chuckles? There's a guy who never tells anything to anyone. And look what happened to him."

She sips at her tea. It buys her the time to think about what I've said. "This isn't about you," she finally says.

"No?"

"You just feel guilty. And so do I. I think I cried for hours that first night in the cave, because I knew I had ruined everything. I'm not built like you."

"As long as you kept going," I say. "That's all that matters."

Our veranda overlooks a city street, and beyond that is a river. I can't even begin to count the number of boats on the water. Long-tails. Rowboats. Yachts. I don't know what they're all called. But it's a lot of boats. Somewhere in the back of the cafe, there is a newsman talking about the battle on the Malaysian border. I don't pay it any mind. The nature of my work often puts me in the middle of newsworthy events. I have yet to meet a reporter who even came close to getting it right. I should make a list of things that are missing from the news blogs. There is no mention of Doctor Brahamiah or his butcher shop. No mention of ghosts or chromatophore based camouflage. No word whatsoever of Doctor Burke. Not even the part where his plane got hijacked. And, of course, no one even knows about Bombstrike, Outback, or Junkyard. No one but us. But I guess that's the way we like it.

The newsmen talk about how the Thai and Malaysian governments regained control of their borders, and are busy re-settling their populations. It doesn't change much, in the long run. Maybe the Malay rebels will wait a few years before resuming the peninsular insurgency. I don't know. I don't even particularly care. It's not my job to fix those kinds of problems, although I'm consistently baffled by the number of people in the world who think I do.

"What bothers me the most is the ambiguity," Fasha says. "There's so many questions that still need to be answered."

I shrug. "I guess I'm used to it. You never get a clear picture of what's really happening. There are always parts that get left out. Especially with Cobra. What I would give to be able to see things from their side, just to understand what is happening and why." I pause for a moment to take a sip of chocolate. "Speaking of which... I never heard and answer on why you turned them down."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Brahamiah asked you why your group didn't support Cobra. He made it sound like they made some kind of overtures to you. And I've got to admit, it was bugging me, too. Your entire deal was that you wanted to rebel against the Thai government and set up your own ethnic Malay state, right? But when Cobra gave it to you, you turned them down. Why?"

"Because I wanted what was best. Not what was easy. Can I tell you a secret? Whenever you see one of those rebel insurgencies, there's always someone behind the curtain. Nobody ever operates a truly grass-roots movement. Everyone who tries to inspire some kind of leaderless 'people's army' will fail. And that's why I failed. I refused to join a leader I didn't believe in. So I thought I could be that leader. I just wasn't up to it."

"Do you regret it?" I ask.

She thinks about this. Sips her tea. Takes her time. She nods with just the barest movement. 'Yes.'

"We were stupid. And selfish. But not wrong. I think there's a difference. I mean, I still want to change Thailand. But I'm not going to fight any more. I've seen enough of that."

"Are you going to be arrested?"

She actually laughs at this. "Oh, no. Fasha Tan isn't my real name. She died in the jungle. And to be honest, I'm not even sure I was ever enough of a menace for the government to even notice. I don't think they even knew who I was."

We sit and watch the boats go by.

"I was expecting you to ask my name."

"I won't," I say. "I'm Mutt. You're Fasha. That's all anyone needs to know. That's how we do things in GI Joe."

"So what are you going to do now?"

I take a deep breath, and sigh. "I've got some funerals to go to. And then I'm going to call my kids. I haven't spoken to them in a long time. My ex-wife probably told them I was dead."

"And then?"

"Then I go look for a new dog."

"Well," Fasha says. "Good luck with that." She drops some money on the table and stands to leave. But five steps in, she thinks better of it and turns around. I know exactly what she's going to ask even before she does.

"I am going to see you again, right?"

I don't answer. Instead, I just hand her my business card. It's nothing fancy. Just a blank slip of paper with a phone number on it. She gives me that wry grin of hers, and walks away. I watch her go.

Time passes. I rest. I watch the world go by. I ponder and I dream and I mourn. I think about my dead friends. I take this time for myself. Here's a truth: The war doesn't stop. It doesn't care about you, and it doesn't ask what you think. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and do what has to be done. And when you get the chance to take a knee and catch your breath, you take it. You never know if it will be your last.

When I finally stand up, I have to wince at the pain in my back. It will be a long time before I'm a hundred percent. It took the doctors an hour to dig all the metal splinters out of my face. But that's okay. I guy on the other side had it even worse.

I walk for perhaps five minutes before my cell phone rings. I answer it, and hear a familiar voice.

"Hey, dude, check this out. I found a bar that's inside a swimming pool, and they put it on top of a fifty story building. This the most amazing thing I've ever seen. Ever. And I mean that. You have got to come check this out. Is Fasha there? She has got to come with us. This is epic. Really."

I laugh and shake my head. "No way, man. You just have fun." He starts to protest, but I just end the call. I've got more important people to talk to.


End file.
